


the shore, so far away

by neonheartbeat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Arranged Marriage, Ballet, Class Differences, F/M, Family Secrets, Friends to Lovers, Gilded Age, Jewelry, Multi, Nude Modeling, Reylo - Freeform, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-10-15 05:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 86,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17522627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: Hard work and dedication brings the young Miss Rachel Nowak from Paris to England to dance the ballet: she then leaves behind the salon of Mme. Pavlova to dream of a fine life in America.Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo, widowed, has arranged a fine match for her only child, Lord John Benjamin Solo, with the rich and spoiled Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness, heiress to her late father's railroad fortune, to save the family from poverty and disgrace.Both parties look forward to their transatlantic crossing on the finest ship the White Star Line has to offer--the RMSTitanic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the middle of my own ocean-crossing to move to a very small island in the Pacific, so updates will be sporadic and I apologize in advance. 
> 
> I should also like to say that while James Cameron's film was very good, he did get some facts incorrect about certain events and muddled others, and because I am a stickler for accuracy where I can work with it, I have corrected some of his narrative. 
> 
> In case anyone is confused about the names being used: I have reworked certain names to be more accurate to people living in 1912. Boys and girls were often named after their fathers and mothers, and the upper class often went by private nicknames or middle names when around family. So for example "Lord Solo" "Ben" and "Lord John Benjamin Solo" are all referring to our Byronic brooding male protagonist, depending on who is addressing him in the narrative.
> 
> With that being said: enjoy!

It was, Lord John Benjamin Solo admitted to himself most begrudgingly as the motorcar came to a halt at the busy dock, a beautiful April day. The sky was blue, there was hardly a cloud in the Southampton sky, and the day—indeed, his future—was full of promise.

His valet opened the door and bowed smartly. "Milord," he said, tipping his cap. Solo slipped out, grateful for the chance to stretch his long legs, and nodded at young Hux, turning to assist the occupants of the motorcar on the no doubt precarious journey from the step to the cobblestones.

First, his mother, of course. Swathed in a dove-gray walking suit, her hair pinned firmly into place under a sensible matronly hat, Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo cut as striking a figure as she ever had in her youth. Sharp eyes might have faded in color to a light whiskey instead of the deep brown they had once been—the deep brown that her son's were—but they still missed nothing whatsoever. She righted herself on the cobbles, nodded at her son with a curt little "thank you, Ben", and went off at once to busy herself with politely educating the porters of the White Star Line regarding all the particulars of their luggage: which was intended to go where, and when, and how, all the while gesturing with her walking-stick at the trunks marked with _Lord J. Benjamin Solo_ and _Lady Elizabeth Solo_ and _Miss Mary Harkness_.

This, of course, left Lord Solo alone with his fiancée, who was the next to emerge from the motorcar's interior. Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness made for quite a picture as she stepped out, dressed head to toe in a beautiful walking-suit, white with delicate black embroidery about the lapels, the hem, and the collar. It had been made in France specially for her, the embroidery had taken an entire house of fashion two months to complete, and the material was the finest wool that money could buy. Lord Solo knew all this, for Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness had spoken of nothing else whatsoever for the entire drive from the South Western Hotel to the quay. _Thank God_ , he thought rather bitterly, _that we only had a ten-minute drive._ Her hat, festooned with feathers, swung about as she looked from side to side, taking in the view with her round dark eyes.

"I say," she said, with a little sniff, "this one isn't nearly as large as the _Mauritania."_

He knew better by now to correct her. "Whatever the size, _Titanic_ is the finest ship the White Star Line has."

Mary Clarisse preened a little, her nose turned up. "Won't the society ladies in New York be green when I tell them how fine it was?"

"I'm sure they will." Lord Solo checked his pocket watch. "We have thirty minutes to departure; it's half-past eleven."

Lady Solo came striding back up, looking pleased. "Ah, there you are, my dear," she said to Mary, and patted her hand. "Well, our trunks are being sent up, so I suppose we ought to board. I have the tickets in my reticule—come along."

Lord Solo offered his arm and Mary Clarisse clung to it quickly, her enormous hat threatening to jab him in the eye. "You might tilt your hat to the left," he suggested, dodging a certain blinding.

"Of course I shan't." Mary looked up at him coldly. "That would ruin the style." He felt a jab in the back, and knew immediately that his mother had given him a warning yet again: _no quarreling_.

"Of course," he said placidly. "You're quite right." Mary Clarisse, quite satisfied, settled on his arm with a little _hmph_ and they ascended the gangplank, arm in arm.

* * *

Lord John Benjamin Solo was fully aware this marriage was for money. He had never been under any illusions otherwise. If his father had not died—his useless, _useless_ , gambling fool of a father—but no! that did no one any good: to dwell on the secrets—the what ifs or the whys or the if onlys. Such was the case: John Solo, "Han" to his friends and his long-suffering lady wife (and that was another great mystery: the fact that an American sea captain had wed a duke's daughter—they had been the scandal of the whole county, and precisely seven months post-wedding their first and only son and heir had been born at Skywalker House, christened John after his father and Benjamin after some old friend of his mother's) had died at the age of seventy-one in a hunting accident, and after his death it had been discovered that Lady Organa Solo's money, nearly _all_ of her money, was gone.

Fortunately, his mother was a shrewd woman and his uncle—her brother, the current Duke—had had a great deal of foresight, and society was another form of currency in the English and American circles she had ingrained herself in. Young John Benjamin stood to inherit a tidy sum from the Duke of Skywalker as soon as he wed, and that alone made him quite desirable to most marriageable young ladies in his society circles—along with his forthcoming dukedom, which he would take after Uncle Luke had passed beyond this mortal coil. The English girls had been less eager: there were other young lords with more money and more cheerful demeanors to win. The American girls had nearly eaten him alive on his first visit to New York and on the subsequent tour through Newport: the two of them entertained by every heiress and socialite of the Gilded Age, and on their London tour salvation had seemingly come at last for the Solo family, in the form of one Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness.

She was, at the age of eighteen, the only daughter of a late American railroad magnate. She was cultured, refined, ladylike, and worth millions. She had just been presented at Court, and had valuable social connections on both sides of the Atlantic. Lady Organa Solo had made the match as quickly as possible, barely consulting her son whatsoever about his new bride, and tally-ho! they were engaged: a sapphire and diamond ring on her slender third finger, her mother's blessing, and they were off to New York to be married as quickly as possible, for Lady Organa Solo did not believe in procrastinating.

Unfortunately for Lord Solo, Miss Mary Clarisse was, in addition to being wealthy, lovely, and refined—spoiled to within an inch of her life, prone to private temper tantrums, and bitingly nasty when she felt like it, which was often. She saw her fiancé as a sort of prize to flaunt: a Duke-to-be, which meant she should be a Duchess; it made her made her the envy of all her friends—and who wouldn't envy her? Lord Solo was taller than almost every man she'd known, broad in the shoulder with powerful legs and arms from summers riding and hunting: ink-dark hair waving back from a high, fine brow and a large Roman nose, a fine jawline and a full, wide mouth more suited to a woman than a man, with deep set eyes. He wore his hair slightly longer than was perhaps strictly appropriate, but it could be forgiven on account of his very large ears. Mary Clarisse spent many an hour looking at herself in the mirror, preening over her fine dark hair and round, large eyes, small mouth and arched brows, and thinking of how lovely a picture they would make in the newspapers in New York.

That was how Lady Organa Solo found her in their first class stateroom, surrounded by her open trunks as the maid helpfully put her things away. "Gracious," she said mildly. "My dear, won't you join me on the deck? We are about to depart, and the shoreline is quite lovely."

"Oh, I couldn't, my lady," said Mary Clarisse breezily, without turning around. "The sun is ever so bad for your complexion, you know."

"Of course," said Lady Solo, whose own complexion was as soft and white as it had been when she was nineteen, a few moments of sunshine notwithstanding. "Tea shall be served in an hour, or so the steward says."

"Oh, I must wear that gown from Paris," exclaimed Mary Clarisse. "It's ever so _haute couture_." She stood up quickly. "Violet, where is my white lace? The one with the blue sash, not the green, it must match my ring—"

Lady Solo silently sighed to herself and exited politely into the sitting room, where Ben stood, directing the steward with his trunks. "Miss Harkness is preparing for tea," she informed him.

"Excellent," Solo said, distractedly. "Yes, Hawkes, put that trunk in my room. Hux will take care of it. My folio can stay here on the table." The steward obediently set down a large leather folder, thick with paper, on the sitting-room table, and took his trunk into the bedroom.

Mary Clarisse emerged from her bedroom, still in her walking-skirt, but divested of her coat and hat. "My," she said, looking at the trunks. "You'd think there were three women in the stateroom!"

"Oh, those are wedding gifts for you," said Lady Solo with a smile. "If you object, of course we might stow them away elsewhere. The folio, however: that is only Ben's work."

"What, these?" Mary Clarisse strode to the table and opened his folio with a careless hand, scattering papers across the fine carpet.

"Leave my designs be," Lord Solo said coldly, bending down to pick up his things.

"Designs! What, are you to hold a patent? Be an inventor?" Mary Clarisse laughed, not very nicely. "Your little drawings won't amount to a thing."

The presence of two spots of color high on his pale cheeks was the only symbol of Lord Solo's embarrassment and hurt. "I'll thank you," he snapped, ignoring his mother's stern-looking face, "to keep your opinions about engineering to yourself, madam: you should stay in your known realm of embroidered walking-suits and oversized hats."

Mary Clarisse gaped, her face gone quite white with shock and fury at being spoken to so. "How _could_ you offend me like that, and me your _fiancée,_ you cruel _brute—_ " She burst into tears, and the steward chose that moment to reappear and make much of a fuss over her, offering her his handkerchief and helping Lady Solo lower her onto the couch by the other wall as she sobbed and gasped most pitifully—and watched her fiancé from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction.

He ignored her stoically, and was grateful that she had not managed to fling every single one of his sketches on the floor—a fair few tucked in the back were of a sort that he should not have liked anyone to see, not even his mother.

Lady Solo, whose sharp eyes missed nothing, pretended not to see Mary Clarisse's sideways looks. "Ben, you shall apologize to Mary at once. That is no way to speak to your bride-to-be."

Lord Solo choked down his anger and curtly bowed. "Apologies, madam."

Mary Clarisse fanned herself and made a great to-do of sitting up and straightening her back. "I have a headache," she announced. "I will _not_ go to tea, after all."

Of course, she would say such a thing just to be contrary. Lord Solo bristled, but Lady Solo merely unfolded a paper from her reticule and pretended to read it very hard.

Mary Clarisse blinked and looked at her, glancing back and forth from her to Lord Solo. Finally, curiosity won out. "What have you there, Lady Solo?" she ventured.

"Oh, only a telegram from your mother," said Lady Solo. "But I am sure you shan't be able to read it, as you have such a headache."

"From Mama!" Mary Clarisse sprung from her couch, her tears and headache forgotten. "Please, what does she say?"

Lady Solo gave her son a quick look, as if to say, _watch and learn_ , before she shook her head. "Oh, dear, no. I shouldn't want to excite you in your state."

"I—I'm feeling all right now," Mary said, flushed.

"Ah, well, in that case." Lady Solo cleared her throat. "She says that she will not be joining us at Cherbourg, but has taken the _Olympic_ to New York and shall meet us there when we disembark."

"Oh," said Mary Clarisse, disappointed. She perked up again after a moment. "Won't it be lovely to see her as we come into port!"

Lady Solo smiled genially. "Indeed. Now, I think you had better get ready for tea, don't you think?"

* * *

Deep below, in the bowels of Deck E, a very different sort of conversation was happening at precisely the same time. A young woman was trying to communicate with the large family of five she had found herself sharing a third-class bunk with, but was finding the process rather difficult, as they spoke no English, nor Italian, nor French, and she did not speak…well, she wasn't sure if it was Russian, or perhaps Polish, but whatever it was, she did not speak it, even though it did seem quite similar to English, but kept slipping away from her like a carp on a line.

"I just want the bunk near the door, please," she repeated, pointing at the bunk in question, upon which sat a tow-headed toddler, blinking at her in mystification.

The mother, a hearty-looking blond woman with a colorful shawl about her shoulders, shook her head, grinning. " _Jag förstår dig inte alls, kära_."*

"Oh, dear," said the young lady, shaking her head. "Right. Let's try this." She squared up and pointed at herself. "Rachel…Maria…Nowak."

"Rrrey-chel!" said the woman, rolling her r's in delight and speaking very slowly. " _Ja! Hej,_ Rey-chel _. Jag är Ebba Nilsson_ ," here she indicated herself, " _och det här är min man Olaf Nilsson_ ," she pointed to her husband, a meaty-looking man with a red face and huge hands, " _och det här är våra barn_ ," here, she indicated each of the children: a girl of about ten, a boy of eight, another boy of six or seven who had apparently gotten Olaf's red hair, a girl of four, and the toddler, " _Anna, Oskar, Josef, Alva, och Erik_." Turning to the children, she rattled off, " _Du måste tala mycket långsamt till damen. Hon kan inte prata svenska_."

"Hello," said Rachel Maria Nowak awkwardly.

" _Hej,_ Rey-chel!" said Anna, beaming.

" _Hej_ , Anna," said Rachel, and the family burst into peals of cheerful laughter. "Oh, goodness. I suppose I am in for a time."

" _Du är engelsk_?" asked tiny Oskar, very slowly.

"Engel—oh, English!" Rachel smiled. "Erm, yes. I mean, _ja. Ja, engelsk_."

After a few more minutes of miming and speaking as if the other were a very small child, Rachel finally got her point across, and was conceded the second bottom bunk closest to the door. She managed to apologize her way to the one mirror and washbasin, and quickly wiped a smudge off her face.

"I suppose America will just have to take me, dirt and all," she said to herself, eyeing her reflection critically.

" _Amerika_!" said Josef excitedly, catching on to the familiar word.

" _Ja, Amerika_!" cried Ebba, beaming, and patted her husband on the hand. "Rey-chel _, vad ska du göra i Amerika_?"

Rachel assumed she was being asked what her business was in America, and replied so. "Dance!" she said, and struck a dramatic pose with her foot out, making the children giggle.

" _Dansa_?" asked Ebba.

" _Ja_ ," replied Rachel, and hoisted up her long, brown skirt to the ankle. "Watch this—" She unlaced her shabby shoes and stood in her stocking feet. Ebba and the children and Olaf watched in astonishment as she concentrated quite hard, and lifted herself directly onto the points of her big toes, holding it for a moment, then shuffling to the left and the right on her toes before coming back down and bowing. The children erupted into applause.

" _Dansa_!" shrieked Anna, delighted. " _Mamma, hon stod på tårna_!"

Ebba clapped, smiling. " _Jag såg_!"

Rachel modestly smiled and put her shoes back on. She wanted to tell them all about her dreams: to be perhaps like Isadora Duncan, breaking the mold of simple ballet and creating something entirely new—though what it would be, she did not know quite yet. After all, she was only nineteen, and all her possessions were in her single suitcase, but oh, she had enough dreams to make up for it, no one could deny.

Miss Nowak took her leave of the Nilsson family and quickly stepped out into the narrow, white-painted corridor to find a water closet, inhaling the smell of fresh paint and smiling at her fellow third-class passengers as she went along. She had sold nearly all her belongings for her ticket: forty pounds was the price of her dreams, and she quickly took her mental inventory of the thing she did have. Three clean shirtwaists, a proper long gray coat, two serviceable brown skirts, a belt, and a fine blue day dress with a silk organza collar that she kept for Sundays. Her only shoes were on her feet, of course: two extra pairs of stockings, a round straw hat with a black ribbon, her extra lace camisole and her nightgown. A comb, a tiny bottle of lilac scent, her dancing shoes (she was in dire need of a new pair, but there was no help for that) and most precious of all, a letter from her old instructor recommending her to whoever it might concern once they disembarked in New York.

She hoped that she would not be subject again to a lice inspection. She had been asked quite politely on the docks to remove her hat, and then a health inspector had poked and prodded through her carefully pinned hair, all about her scalp and ears while she stood, cheeks flaming. Of course she had no lice: why, she carefully washed her hair every Saturday, like a proper young lady, didn't she? They had cleared her, and she had marched into the bowels of the ship, one or two glances upward at the first-class passengers embarking far above.

Like snobbish, floating angels, she thought of them. Entirely unconcerned with her world, swathed in great lace gowns and enormous hats, going about their business, whatever it might be—oil tycoons and gold mine owners, like as not.

Rachel made it to the washrooms and got into line behind a small Syrian lady, whose black headscarf was adorned in a myriad of embroidered flowers. She wanted to ask who had done the needlework, but spoke no Arabic at all, and so resigned herself to waiting her turn to use the facilities.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers: I find myself Extremely Ill with a Dreadful Cold of the Chest and Head after Much Travelling in the Cold, and so find myself publishing this Second Installment from the Guest-Room of my Dear Mother's House wrapped in Blankets and liberally applying Hot Tea whilst my Beloved Husband gallivants about the Town. Any Error in the text can therefore Be Ascribed to my Indisposition. Yours Truly~

The mighty ship docked at Cherbourg, France, that evening, taking on a great deal more passengers in the indigo light before churning off back North, toward the next port in Queenstown, Ireland, at exactly eight o'clock on the dot.

"That," said Miss Mary Clarisse as they passed a formidable-looking woman, heavy-browed and heavy-faced, in her dinner-gown, "is Mrs. Margaret Brown. She _divorced_ her husband three years back; can you believe it?"

"Scandalous," said Lord Solo, who was beginning to think it might not be too early for a divorce himself.

"And she's only new money," said Clarisse, with a sniff. "Her husband runs a mine—I heard she worked in soup kitchens to assist his  _miners_. Imagine that. She should be traveling in third class if she likes the poor so much."

"I hear the third class accommodations are quite nice," said Lady Solo, her hand tucked into Ben's other arm. "Perhaps you might like to tour them, Miss Harkness."

Clarisse laughed, a tinkling, silver little noise. "Oh, gracious, you must call me Clarisse, it's ever so familiar, and after all, I am to be your daughter in law—what should I call you?"

Ben felt his mother's gloved hand tighten ever so slightly on his arm. "Why, you might call me Mother Leia," she said. "It is, of course, not a proper name of mine—but my son so called me once at the age of two, when he could not quite make the correct sounds, and so said my middle name—Lelia became Leia."

"Oh, I'm sure he was a charming boy," said Clarisse, beaming at her intended. "Did his ears stick out quite as much back then?"

"Oh, look, we are seating," said Lord Solo, rather loudly. "Ladies, shall we?"

And so they went into the dining room, to sit and talk of nothing at all.

* * *

Rachel Nowak found herself at dinner, seated between a young Norwegian woman and a burly Scotsman, both of whom—thank God!—spoke English, and found herself chatting away happily with the pair of them. The Scotsman was called James Monroe Mackenzie, "but ye mun call me Jamie," and he was on his way to Wisconsin to take up with his wife and children, who had gone ahead some years prior—"me youngest is a wee bairn of three and I've no seen her yet, they called her Eileen!"— and the Norwegian girl, Ilsa Hansen, was traveling with her mother to meet her father in Minnesota, who owned a farm and was quite on his way up in the world. 

"But what are you coming to America for?" inquired Ilsa brightly, as they sipped down the hearty stew in their bowls. "And all alone?"

"Oh, I am an orphan, so I am used to being quite alone," said Rachel cheerfully. "But I was trained as a dancer in the Paris schools, and made my way to England."

"A dancer, aye?" Jamie Mackenzie looked astonished. "And what sort o' dancin' is it that ye do, wee Rachel?"

"Ballet," said Rachel. "I—I don't think they have it in Scotland."

"I've seen tintypes," offered Ilsa. "You mean you stand on your toes and things like that?"

"Oh, yes," Rachel said eagerly. "It's quite easy if you know how."

"Stand on yer toes, is it?" Jamie blinked.

"Yes—I tried to explain to the family I'm sharing my berth with by demonstrating—such a sweet family, the Nilssons, five children, you know—and I think I may have given them a thrill," Rachel admitted, and Ilsa laughed.

"You should do it for the rest of us! There is a piano in the General Room, and I can play very well. We must make our own entertainment on the ship, after all."

"A private ballet performance, indeed! I must use a false name, like all the English dancers who use Russian names to sound ever so exotic." Rachel chewed on her biscuit thoughtfully. "Ebba Nilsson can't quite say _Rachel_ , she says it like Rey-chel. I shall be Rey, then: it's easier to say. Rey Nowak."

"Done!" Ilsa grinned, showing her excellent white teeth. "I shall have to call you 'Rey' too—in _norsk_ your name is Raa-kil."

"Oh, dear. Yes, you must, and so shall everyone else, I think."

"Then it is settled. A great performance shall be held—just as soon as I can pull the Irish off the piano." Ilsa winked, and Rey smiled at her, perfectly happy with her new friend.

* * *

Later that evening, as they walked arm in arm along the third-class promenade in the night air, complaining quite cheerily of the cold and wind in the Channel, they turned about and looked up at the first-class promenade, one deck above and open to the air. Several people turned about, walking and looking out over the night sea, bedecked in feathers and jewels and silks and fur.

"Imagine all those people," whispered Ilsa, cheeks ruddy from the cold under her kerchief. "More money than God Himself, Mama says, and without the sense Our Lord gave a dog. What would you do if you had that much money, and were so rich?"

Rey giggled and exhaled, looking at her breath smoke on the air. "If I was rich, I would—I would drink good tea every day, and never be hungry again."

"If I was rich—" Ilsa scrunched her nose up in thought. "I would have a fine silk morning-robe to wear, and eat meat every day, not only holidays."

"If I was rich, I should take hot baths any day I pleased!"

"I would have a grand piano, and a fine sitting-room with lace curtains!"

"I would hold tea-parties and all the fine ladies would come calling from the Missionary Society—"

"I would have a carriage of solid gold and ride about, like a princess in a fairy-story—"

They dissolved into laughter, and Rey threw her head back to laugh, facing up at the first-class deck. The laughter died quickly—there was a man, all alone, standing at the corner of the rail, and she could not tell if he was looking out to sea or looking at her, but his shoulders were hunched over and his head was bent, and he looked—why, he looked miserably unhappy. "Ilsa—look at that poor man," she said quite softly.

Ilsa looked up. "The tall one by the rail?"

"The very one." Rey tilted her head. He was dressed in a fine set of tails for dinner, but without a hat, as if he had come out very quickly without stopping for it, and she was just near enough below him that she could see his hands clenched quite tightly about the railing. Abruptly, he turned away, and it was at that moment that Rey realized he had been looking down at them, and that they had been staring like a pair of ninnies. Heat flushed her face—she had not meant to be so rude. She could not, of course, call out to him; it would be entirely inappropriate.

A young woman emerged from somewhere on the deck and came towards the man: she was gowned in a beautiful white and red dinner dress with a great fur wrap about her shoulders, and she looked markedly upset. Neither Ilsa nor Rey could make out the words exchanged, but the man stoically offered his arm and they went back inside, away from the rail.

"She didn't look happy," Ilsa remarked.

"Indeed not, and I can't imagine why." Rey leaned closer, as if in confidence. "I am sure I saw that dress in Paris: it is a Poiret, and very fashion-forward."

"Ah, she must have more money than is sensible to be happy," said Ilsa. "So, naturally, she finds herself insensibly upset."

Rey laughed at the clever turn. "I heard from a steward that first class takes ten courses for dinner—ten! Can you imagine?"

"What on earth must they eat?" Ilsa shook her head in mock bewilderment as they turned about and walked toward the stern. "Snails and dewdrops of only the finest in Denmark?"

"Wines made from mermaid's tears," said Rey, smiling, "and steaks of the finest cows from China."

"Have you been to China?" Ilsa inquired as they neared the door.

"No, but I had a friend whose maiden aunt was a missionary there. She wrote him and said that it is the most beautiful country she had ever seen, with great green mountains and rivers." Rey sighed wistfully. "One day I should like to see every country on the earth."

"But first you must become a famous dancer," teased Ilsa. "Quick, back inside, or we will freeze!"

* * *

Lord Solo was never more grateful then when he was, at last, able to stand with the other men and retire to the smoking room. Here was a respite from the constant needling, the comments, the talk of hats and shoes and gowns and whatever Madeline Astor was wearing to dinner: dear God! He had never considered himself a woman-hater, but he was certainly sick to death of one in particular by now, and it was only the first night: he would never survive this crossing.

The doors shut behind him and the others as they entered, and he inhaled softly, the scent of cigars drifting through the room. He was not a smoker, having had a disastrous experience at the age of twelve involving his father's pipe, but he could appreciate the brandy and coffee well enough, so it was to these comforts he found himself clinging to, in a most comfortable chair tucked into a corner, his jacket unbuttoned and his head swimming pleasantly.

Astor said hello, and Andrews tipped his hat politely, and he recognized them with a nod. Nobody made to come near and strike up a conversation, and why would they? He made for a moody figure, brooding in his corner and looking into the fire. Solo had not been known for his cheerfulness in either England or America, but something had still drawn a fair few women to him like a moth to a flame. Perhaps they thought themselves the protagonists of some Gothic novel, and he the hero. Whatever the case, he was no hero, just a man with nothing but his good name and the promise of future prospects. He wondered idly if Astor or Ismay actually had real money on them or not: was it all in stocks and bonds, their suits and cigars bought on credit?

He was interrupted from his thoughts as a steward bent low by his ear. "My lord, I've been sent to tell you that Miss Mary Harkness is outside the door, asking to speak with you."

 _Christ_ , he thought sourly. Would the woman not give him a moment of peace? "Thank you," he told the steward, and heaved forward out of his comfortable chair, nodding at the gentlemen and exiting as another steward held the door for him.

There she stood, her rosebud mouth pressed into a displeased line. "I wish to take a walk on the promenade," Clarisse proclaimed. "You must accompany me."

"Where is Mother?" Ben looked down the hall. "Surely you didn't leave her in the dining room alone."

Clarisse rolled her eyes. "Of course not. She wished to retire. _Leave_ her, really, Ben, as if I was a minder—"

"I have not given you leave to call me that," he said very coldly, in a tone that brooked no argument whatsoever. Clarisse blinked, looking as if she might attempt another tantrum, but was interrupted by his continued speech. "If you walked from the dining room to the smoking room alone, you can walk the promenade alone. As if I was a _minder_."

Clarisse went red in the cheeks. "You want me to walk outside _alone_? I'm your fiancée—"

"No," said Lord Solo, really and truly enraged by now, and without Lady Solo nearby to warn him. "No, _you_ want to walk about alone, and let your fiancé's aged mother find her own way back to the stateroom, because God forbid your Poiret isn't seen by every pair of eyes in first class four times over until eleven o' clock, madam. So. Take your walk. Good evening." He turned on his heel, leaving Clarisse speechless for once, and marched back into the smoking room, walking directly to the bar.

"What might I get you, sir?" inquired the tender, wiping out a glass.

"Brandy," he said, and drank it in one swallow as soon as the man handed it to him. Good _God_ , he was sick to death of women.

Two more brandies and a game of cards later, he was having quite a fascinating conversation with the industrialist magnate, Mr. Guggenheim. "Your mistake, my boy," he said, his round and handsome face bobbing very close to Solo's, "is thinking you will be _stuck_ with your wife. No, no. Do as I have done: acquire a mistress, and all will be quite well."

"A mistress," said Lord Solo, feeling pleasantly floaty.

"Of course! I should introduce you to mine—Madame Aubart, you have not met her yet? No, you wouldn't have—I shall arrange it tomorrow. And does Florette mind it? Not at all. She minds her affairs, and I mind mine. Of course, it wouldn't be proper until after you, ah." Guggenheim gestured vaguely, smiling. "Well. I didn't take up with Léontine until Florette and I had our three children…"

Lord Solo didn't quite listen to the rest of the sentence. _Children_. The idea of being alone in a room with Clarisse was bad enough; the thought of siring a child on her was wholly distasteful. He had never dallied whatsoever with anyone in his life, but he knew well enough what was done to make children: after all, he was thirty years old and not an idiot. He hadn't considered that aspect of marriage yet. She would likely hate it. Most upper-class women were said to hate it; why should she be any different? She would either cry, or just lie there like a cold dead carp while he did his duty, and he would be forced to repeat the procedure monthly until she conceived, after which at last he could send her away somewhere else—anywhere else.

"You must pardon me," he said quickly, and Guggenheim nodded politely as he stood, steadied himself, and walked out into the verandah, and from there the promenade, and steeled himself against the bitingly cold air, inhaling great sobering lungfuls of the stuff. He had not brought his coat nor his hat, and he made his way, shivering, to the rail, ignoring the mild conversation and laughter of the other first class passengers who had braved the cold for a walk.

Lord Solo gripped the cold white rail and bent his head, trying to clear his mind. _You are a man, for God's sake; you knew this day would come._ It was to no avail. All his life stretched out before him as bleak and black as the sea below. 

The sound of laughter floated up from below, and he turned automatically to find the source—no well-bred lady laughed like that: clear and loud and full of delight. His eyes alighted on a pair of young women walking about the steerage promenade, the deck below him: one was dressed in sober black with a shawl about her shoulders and a kerchief on her head and had a long blond braid thick as a wrist hanging to her waist. Her unconventional appearance marked her as a Swede, or perhaps a Norse-woman? The other was animatedly speaking to her companion, smiling, and as he watched she threw her head back and let loose with a peal of robust laughter. He could not make out her hair, or indeed much of her at all beyond a practical gray coat and hat, but her mirth cut him to the quick. Whoever they were, penniless, third class, without a thing to their name, like as not—they were _happy_ , and he—he, Lord J. Benjamin Solo, with all his future prospects and his lordship and his promised titles, was not.

He became suddenly intensely aware that the young lady was looking up at him, and he could see her face now: a fine open face with intelligent features, but only an expression of sympathy written across it.

Embarrassed at having been caught staring, and at the fact that he had been so lax in his expression as to garner _sympathy_ from a steerage passenger, Lord Solo turned abruptly away, but unfortunately this action brought him face to face with a fur-wrapped and murderous-looking Clarisse.

"Madam," he said, and hiccupped.

"You _are_ drunk. I thought as much, or you would never have spoken to me so." Clarisse's expression changed, settling into smug sweetness.

Solo closed his eyes and bit down his anger. "Yes. I apologize."

"Of course," she said graciously. "Come, will you escort me inside? I think it's time we both retire. Thank goodness Mother Leia doesn't snore."

He dutifully extended his elbow, and Clarisse slipped her hand into the crook, and all the way back to the stateroom he entertained thoughts of flinging himself into the English Channel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Margaret Brown was an absolute unit. She married for love and not money, got rich with her husband, then divorced him when their relationship just wasn't working anymore. And yes, she did work in soup kitchens to help out her husband's employees.
> 
> -If I can't work in a subtle nod to Outlander what am I even on this planet for


	3. Chapter 3

They called at Queenstown at half-past eleven the next morning, and in only two hours were heading out into the open, deep green sea of the North Atlantic at a record twenty knots, the lovely breeze and weather lifting everyone's spirits.

"I do believe," said Lady Solo after a late breakfast served in their private stateroom, "that we are meeting Mr. Andrews on the promenade shortly for a private tour of the ship."

"Tour of the ship?" Clarisse leaned forward, her hair artfully tousled above her lacy morning gown. "Shall we see the Turkish baths and the squash court, then?"

"Oh, indeed, as well as many other things," said Lady Solo, catching her son's eye. "You ought to put on something a bit more… sturdy, Clarisse: we shouldn't like you to catch cold."

"Of course, Mother Leia." Clarisse sipped her coffee and nibbled at her egg.

Solo excused himself and went to his bedroom, untying his robe and reaching for the clothes his valet had laid out: a gray serge walking-suit, a cap, a coat, and a fresh shirt. Sensible, sharp, and warm. Hux knew his business all right. Ben pulled his clothes on and leaned down to comb his hair in the mirror. He stood several inches over six feet, and the mirror had clearly not been designed to accommodate such a giant among men.

He exited, dressed for the day, and waited in the sitting room to escort his mother and his intended, both in walking-suits (of course, Clarisse's was white linen, complete with an enormous hat, and Mama Leia's was a fine blue wool, with a much more modest piece of headwear) out to the promenade, and from thence, to find Mr. Thomas Andrews.

The Irishman greeted them cheerfully, a straw boater-hat on his head and a smile on his face. "Lady Solo! A pleasure, madam, a pleasure."

"Thank you, Mr. Andrews," Lady Solo said politely. "My son, Lord John Benjamin Solo, and his fiancée, Miss Mary Harkness—I don't believe you have met them."

"Why, I did see Lord Solo in the smoking room, but did not have the pleasure," said Mr. Andrews, and shook hands with him firmly. Solo found himself rather liking the man already: a firm handshake and a sincere smile spoke of confidence, and the set of his shoulders shouted pride. He was young for having achieved such an accomplishment: it was well-deserved pride indeed. "And Miss Harkness, a great honor." He kissed her hand, and Clarisse smiled brightly. "I was quite sorry to hear of your father."

Her face faltered for a moment, and Lord Solo thought, _by God, perhaps the woman is human after all_. "Oh, the honor is mine, sir, and thank you. Papa always spoke very highly of the shipping industry."

"I am glad he did," said Mr. Andrews. "How might he have liked my ship, I wonder?"

"Oh, he would have been awestruck," said Clarisse, smiling now. "Just as I am."

"Then you shall see every nook and cranny, my dear; the more to astonish." Andrews held out his elbow and Clarisse gladly took it. Lady Solo slipped her hand into her son's arm, leaning on her walking-stick. "Come along, ladies!"

* * *

Rachel and Ilsa were preparing enthusiastically for their performance, and had found that regardless of the language barrier, a fair few families (and men traveling alone) were more than amiable to watching _le ballet_ , and it would entertain them anyway. They had settled on _The Firebird_ , because Ilsa, who had a mind like a steel trap, knew the theme well enough from a travelling performance she had sneaked into, and Rachel knew most of the steps. It was true that she had no costume to wear, but a quick expedition about the cabins had gained them a borrowed red silk headscarf and a yellow shawl, which, pinned to her corset and draping about her shoulders, served perfectly well to illustrate the character of the Firebird.

A petticoat had been raised slightly and tucked into her waistband to show off her footwork without being _too_ scandalous: she was well aware of the general sensibilities, even in third-class, and they did not wish to shock anyone. Her long hair was tied into a knot atop her head, a borrowed silk rose from Ebba's best Sunday hat tucked into the coil, and she carried her dancing shoes with her as she hurried along in her stocking feet and coat behind Ilsa, who was bedecked for the occasion as well in her finest blouse and kerchief.

They entered the general room, giggling madly at each other, and marched to the piano, where two young men were singing quite loudly, trying to pluck out a tune on the poor thing. "You must let us have the piano!" Ilsa demanded, smiling.

One of the men looked up in surprise, but his face changed quite quickly as he saw Ilsa, her pretty broad face directly staring at his. "Aye," he said, quite instinctively. "O'course, miss." He elbowed his friend, muttering in Gaelic, and they edged off to find a seat and watch, Ilsa planting herself firmly on the bench and playing a few bars to warm up.

They had done their best to spread the word: in four languages, no less, and as Ilsa played, people began to creep in excitedly, pulling along their wide-eyed children and curious wives and husbands and aunts and cousins.  

Rachel ducked behind the piano, out of sight, and sat down quickly to pull on her worn shoes. Her heart beat in excitement as Ilsa paused to loudly inform the room in English and Norwegian that they would shortly see a dance by the soon-to-be famous ballerina, Rey Nowak, and at no cost, for the entertainment of all. Truly, she had never danced the part of a prima-ballerina in France: she was kept mostly to ensembles and background dances on account of her too-thin ankles and long limbs, but nobody here would know the difference. _I am just like Mme. Pavlova_ , she thought to herself. _I will be a great dancer in America, I know I shall: if only I can do this first!_

* * *

"And here, of course," said Mr. Andrews, "is the entrance to C deck, where, as I'm sure you know, the first-class barber shop is, as well as several very fine facilities for our third-class passengers."

 _"Third_ class?" Clarisse asked, fearfully.

"Oh, do tell me about the accommodations," said Lady Solo brightly, ignoring Clarisse. "I had heard, Mr. Andrews, that the White Star Line sought to give the steerage as much luxury as was possible."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Andrews, distracted from Clarisse's wide eyes. "They have three square meals a day—I have heard the food aboard is better than some have ever eaten in their home countries." He shut the gate behind them as they walked through, and continued walking on down the hall.

"What countries do the steerage…passengers…hail from?" ventured Clarisse, gripping her hat as if she expected it to be stolen by thieves.

"Oh, many, Miss Mary.  We have got British, Hungarians, Finns, Swedish, Irish, Syrians, Russians—even a Turk, I believe, and a fair few Bulgarians."

Lady Solo interrupted what was sure to be quite a comment from Clarisse, and asked, "And they were all passed through the health inspection before boarding?"

"Oh, of course," said Mr. Andrews. "You need not grip your hat so tightly, Miss Mary: there is no wind down here."

Clarisse lowered her hand reluctantly. "I suppose I should not be so—pre-dispositioned to think of all the third class as thieves and robbers."

Andrews laughed. "Indeed not! Most are families. And if you are quite quiet, you may hear—" He held his fingers to his lips, and the drifting, faint strains of piano music floated down the hall. "You see, they make their own entertainment: we have given them a fine piano in their general room and many are musically inclined."

Lord Solo frowned. He was nearly sure he knew that music: the score was familiar, but what on earth _was_ it? "Mr. Andrews, I don't suppose we might join them?"

"Join them?" Clarisse asked, shocked as she turned. "You can't be serious, B—Lord Solo."

"I believe I recognize that music," said Lady Solo. "Is it not a piece from _The Firebird_? My son and I attended that ballet in London."

"Then we must go and attend this performance, too," said Mr. Andrews cheerfully, "but we must attract no attention—if they see us they may be inclined to stop and nod and that would spoil the playing!"

So they set off, quiet and quick, feeling like schoolchildren sneaking along an alley, to the general room, to see what lay there.

* * *

 

"And now," Ilsa called, pausing to let her words be quickly translated among the audience—easily about a hundred people by now—"I am delighted to present our ballerina, Madame Rey Nowak!"

The audience cheered as Rey rose up, heart pounding, from behind the piano. She had a good twenty feet of space to dance on, and she meant to use it all. Up she rose on her toes, arms out gracefully, and the third-class gasped in astonishment, whispering to each other in delight. _Oh, I hope my legs aren't showing too much_ , she thought desperately, and she was off after that: Ilsa playing the Firebird's theme as she pirouetted and leaped and landed on her toes and twirled, arms out and up and whirling.

Around and around, over and over, the red and yellow scarves billowing around her shoulders like fire—she danced. She executed a particularly difficult piece of footwork and everyone in the room clapped quite loudly—dance, after all, needed no language to explain.

* * *

Lord Solo was motioned forward by Andrews to the door, and peered around the corner to watch whatever was going on. He felt more intrigued by this adventure than he had by anything else in the past week—months, really—and he meant to enjoy it.

A pretty blond girl with a kerchief on her head was playing the piano, and the floor in front of her was on fire, the whole room watching.

Solo blinked. No, the floor was not on fire. There was a girl dancing, but not the folk-dances he had expected to see executed in such a place as this: no, this person was dancing the ballet, of all things, and extraordinarily well, for that. She looked as light as a soap bubble as she rose up on her toes and lowered herself back down, as she leapt and whirled with a dizzying speed. Her hair, which had been respectably pinned atop her head, was coming down on the left side in a great dark fall, and she did not seem to care. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, but he could not think of what it was.

He looked back at the piano player, and ah, yes! That was it: the blond girl was the young lady he had seen walking the deck last night, arm-in-arm with— but it couldn't be. The respectable-looking, shabby young lady in the gray coat and hat—she could not possibly be this sylph-like being. He suddenly remembered her laugh, how she had flung her head back, and yes, _yes_ , of course it must be, how could it be anyone else?

"My goodness," whispered Lady Solo. "She dances like her feet are on fire."

"Why is a ballerina travelling third class?" Clarisse wanted to know.

"Ballerinas are quite often not possessed of great means," Lady Solo said carefully.

The music came to an end and the dancer sank into a graceful curtsy, and the room applauded in delight, shouting in forty different languages as she laughed and blushed and curtsied again. The musician stood and took her arm and they curtsied again together, and she shouted out, "Now you all must remember to look up Madame Rey Nowak when you arrive in America, won't you?"

Rey Nowak? What sort of a name was _that?_ Lord Solo found himself applauding automatically with everyone else in spite of his curiosity, and could not help but smile and shout a "Brava!" He had a very strong voice, and it carried. Several heads turned, and looked shocked at the sight of him and Mr. Andrews with a matronly lady and a young, fussy one: all clearly first-class passengers. Many heads bowed and tapped their caps, and Solo at once felt embarrassed and ungainly, as if he had blundered into a fairy circle and disturbed something he had not been meant to see.

The dancer and the piano player went quite white, both looking equally shocked. Lady Solo inclined her head to them, and they exchanged looks with each other and curtsied back. "I should like to meet the ladies," she said politely to Mr. Andrews.

"Oh, of course, Lady Solo," he said, and headed off at once, the very picture of fatherly kindness as he approached them both.

Lord Solo could see that the dancer was now blushing, and tugging on the scarves pinned to her shoulders to cover her bare arms. They exchanged words, both the blond and the dark heads nodded, and Madame Rey Nowak ducked around the side of the piano, coming back with her coat and absent her dancing shoes, then making her way to them with Mr. Andrews.

Ben's mind quite stuttered to a halt at the sight of her feet in their thin stockings, and turned instead to his mother. "What sort of name is Rey Nowak, do you think, Mother?"

"Not her true one, I should think," said Lady Solo, leaning on her cane. "Ah, there they are. Gracious, child, you're huffing and puffing like a steam engine." This was to Rey Nowak, who was red in the face and sweating. Lord Solo suddenly had a horrible thought: what if she spoke no English?

His fears were allayed almost immediately. "Oh, I am sorry," she said quickly, in a perfectly fine Estuary accent, "it is very hard work, and I did not know we would have—have—" Her eyes flickered to Leia's fine hat and clothes, and she finished, "fine guests coming to watch."

"Nonsense, child. Here." Leia dug into her reticule and came up with a handkerchief, handing it to the young lady, who blinked at the fine cotton and lace before dabbing her face with it delicately. "It was a fine performance from the pair of you, Miss…?"

"I am Ilsa Hansen," said the blond girl, curtseying again.

"Miss Hansen. A pleasure. Your playing is very good and lively." Lady Solo smiled. "I am Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo, but you may say just Lady Solo. You have, I see, met the ship's architect?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am," said Rey Nowak brightly. "Mr. Andrews. A pleasure."

"Ah, and this is my son, Lord John Benjamin Solo." Lady Solo indicated Ben, and he first bowed to Ilsa, who looked quite unsure of herself as he kissed her hand, and then to Rey, whose hands were hot with exertion and smelled of chalk and lilacs as he bent over it.

He raised his eyes, and found she was looking directly at him with a curious expression on her face. "I think—I have seen you before, sir," she ventured timidly.

"Likely in the papers," he said, hoping to divert her from a discussion of his night-time rail-clutching habits. "I have recently been engaged, and this is my fiancée, Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness—" Lord Solo turned, but Clarisse was simply nowhere to be seen at all.

"Oh, dear me," said Mr. Andrews.

"I thought it was uncommonly quiet," said Lady Solo rather waspishly. "Where on earth can the lady have gotten to?"

"Oh, goodness," said Rey, looking up at the sign for the lavatories. "Perhaps she went in search of the water closet. We ought to find her, at any rate—"

"It won't be difficult," said Lord Solo, "she's wearing a hat the size of the Suez Canal."

"Quick, Ilsa, I shall go to the lavatories on this deck and you must go and ask everyone if they have seen a fine first-class lady." Rey turned about as Ilsa dashed off. "She is, of course, in no danger, sir, but she might become frightened of the passengers, or lost."

"I think the former more likely," said Lady Solo.

"Follow me, then—I know the corridors in this part quite well by now, and we'll find her soon." And with that, they were off, the first-class party following along behind a young dancer in only a coat over her dancing-costume, in her stocking feet.

* * *

Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness was having a perfectly dreadful morning.

"Oh, do go away!" she wailed, staring at the broad face of the man who stood staring at her in confusion. "I just want to go _in!"_ The water-closets were right there, and this great brute was blocking the door: why couldn't he understand?

He said something incomprehensible, and gave her a smile that seemed terribly lecherous, before reaching out his _hand_ , and Clarisse shrieked, losing her head entirely. She made a jerking motion away, the pin of her hat fell out, and her hat slid forward on her head, obscuring her vision. She struggled with it, near tears: the dreadful man was _laughing_ at her, and oh, wasn't she going to write a nasty letter to the White Star Line once they disembarked? She began to cry: she hated being laughed at even more than she hated this awful man who _would not move._

"Oi!" shouted a voice, and Clarisse, at this new assault on her senses, reeled sideways against the wall. Someone pulled her hat away, and she blinked in shock at the face that greeted her: a young woman, very loosely dressed, in fact: _half_ -dressed with her hair all falling down—wait, no, it was the dancer, the little ballerina!

"Help me," she gasped.

The young lady turned toward the man and spoke a halting sentence in a strange language. The man said something back, looking bemused, and the dancer turned back to Clarisse. "Mr. Nilsson says you were trying to go into the gentleman's water closet, and the ladies lavatory is there." She pointed, and Clarisse went scarlet with embarrassment.

"Oh, dear," she said feebly, and wished she had not worn such a tight corset. "I—I think—" She lost her balance, and her vision went quite out of sorts, and she clung to the other woman for support all the way down to the floor.

* * *

"She is all right!" Lord Solo heard the young woman calling, and rounded the corner with Lady Solo and Mr. Andrews to find his fiancée propped up against the white wall in a faint, Rey Nowak kneeling at her side and fanning her.

"Good God," said Solo, forgetting himself, and knelt down by Rey. "Clarisse?"

"Lady?" asked a great hulk of a man, coming out of the washroom with a wet towel, which he handed to Rey. "Is right?"

" _Ja_ ," said Rey, looking up at him, " _och tack_ , Herr Nilsson." He nodded and retreated, tipping his cap to Lord Solo and Lady Solo.

"Who was that man?" demanded Solo. "Did he… did he harass her?"

"Of course not," said Rey quite heatedly as she patted Clarisse's pale face with the wet cloth. "The very idea. That is Olaf Nilsson, and his wife and children are my bunkmates. He would not harm a mouse."

Solo bristled. "I do not care what his name is. This is my fiancée, and if she's been hurt—"

"Your fiancée is _fine_ , sir; she's just taken a fright."

Clarisse stirred and moaned. "Oh, is that man gone?"

Rey leaned in. "Yes, he's gone, miss. Just rest for a moment."

"Man? What man?" demanded Lady Solo, coming up behind with Mr. Andrews.

Lord Solo clenched his jaw. "According to our Madame Rey, Clarisse had an encounter with a Mr. Nilsson, and is recovering, Mother."

"Encounter?" Mr. Andrews looked horrified. "Should I call the master-at-arms?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Rey, turning to face them. "Miss Clarisse speaks no Swedish. Mr. Nilsson speaks no English. She was trying to get into the lavatory and he was trying to tell her that it was the gentleman's, and she became quite flustered and got her hat stuck, and fainted."

"Is that how it happened, Clarisse?" Lord Solo asked, as evenly as he could make himself. Heaven forbid she had been harmed by the man: her mother would call off the wedding, and they would be ruined.

"Yes," said Clarisse, coming round a little more. "Yes. This girl rescued me, and I am quite grateful to her for it." Solo sighed in relief.

"Here, up you get," said Rey, and sturdily let Clarisse lean on her and get to her feet, slightly weak in the knees. "There."

"I am afraid I have been very foolish," said Clarisse, her cheeks a blotchy red color. "I shouldn't have left the rest of you and struck off alone in such a dangerous place. Why—why, I owe you," she said to Rey, and seized by a spirit of philanthropy, dug into her reticule and held out a twenty-dollar bill to the dumbstruck young woman.

"I don't want your money, miss," said Rey, quite indignant. "Why, I have done nothing to warrant it."

Clarisse looked as if she had never considered such an idea. "But—I thought—Lady Solo said that ballerinas are often not possessed of great means—"

"My dear," said Lady Solo very quickly, "I should like to invite you to dine with us to-morrow night, if you please, to express my gratitude."

Rey looked stunned, but to her credit, swallowed her objections. "I—I should be delighted to accept your invitation," she said, and put a hand to her head. Upon realizing her hair was all down, she began to twist the locks back up, frantically pinning them in place.

"Excellent. It is settled. You will join us at the Grand Staircase, Deck D, at precisely seven o' clock." Lady Solo smiled. "Now, let us get Miss Mary Clarisse back to her room to recover from her shock. I think perhaps tea in the stateroom is in order."

"I shall see to it myself," declared Mr. Andrews.

Lord Solo let Clarisse tuck her arm into his mother's, and turned to Rey. Her eyes found his, and he got the distinct feeling that they had left a conversation unfinished, but he could not think what it was—or indeed, what to say at all. "I—shall see you tomorrow, miss," he said politely, and bent slightly as she extended her hand automatically, cupping her fingers in his.

He thought perhaps he understood the old-fashioned custom of wearing gloves as he bent his head to brush a kiss along her bent knuckles. She smelt of lilacs still, spicy and floral, and her skin was no longer feverish, but simply warm and firm and smooth. A guard against _familiarity_ : that was why his parents' generation had worn gloves, and his grandparents. He almost wished for a pair now.

"Good day, Lord Solo," she said, perfectly properly, as he straightened. He allowed himself a look, a flash to be preserved in his memory: an honest, open face: sharp nose, wide mouth, gull-wing brows and freckles. Her coloring was entirely unfashionable, as was her face, but it was not uncomely at all. Her whole being said, _I am here, I shall stay firm, and whatever you do I shall not be moved in my ways_.

He nodded at her, turned, and walked down the hall with his mother, and his fiancée, and Andrews, who was gallantly supporting Clarisse.

It was not until they had reached their proper deck and made it to their stateroom that Lord Solo realized he had never found out the young woman's true name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Leia's fine blue wool walking-suit is a nod to her costume at the end of TFA, of COURSE.  
> -Thomas Andrews was actually only 39 when the Titanic sank, contrary to his portrayal in the film.  
> -The Firebird was written in 1910 by Igor Stravinsky for that year's Paris season of the Ballets Russes company, was first performed at the Opera de Paris, and was a smashing hit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am afraid there is not much to tell," Lord Solo said. "You already know I have a mother traveling with me and a fiancée to boot—what you see, I suppose, is what there is."
> 
> "Oh, that is never true," said Miss Nowak, setting her saucer down. "No, no. The outside only reflects something on the inner character, and can never tell the whole story. You only knew I danced: you knew nothing of my story whatsoever. I only know you are a lord from England, as your lady mother is English, but your speech is American and so is Miss Mary. You must be excited for your wedding?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a nice long chapter, because I'm going to be AWOL all week, and goodness only knows when I'll have the chance to sit down and update. Please enjoy!

That evening, Lord Solo tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep despite the liberal internal application of brandy he had taken earlier in the smoking-room. He could not stop thinking on his own emotional state regarding Clarisse's welfare in the steerage halls: what sort of a man, upon finding his fiancée insensible, thinks of only his family's money? He should have had thoughts for her safety, or perhaps her honor—but no, his mind had flown at once directly to his own prospects.

 _You are a selfish brute of a man_ , Solo thought bitterly, staring at the finely paneled wall. They were engaged, for heaven's sake: he ought to have done anything else but sit by the young _ballerine_ and watched her stupidly in her attempts to bring Clarisse round.

He did not want to think of his own failures or shortcomings. He did not want to think of his mother, or Clarisse, or the wedding. He would rather think about Madame Rey Nowak.

A silk rose had fallen from her loose hair as she had raced down the halls all a-dither to find his fiancée, and he had picked it up unthinkingly as he had followed, his mother far behind. In the commotion, Solo had forgotten to return it to her, and he had it now, sitting on his night-table, and he had smelled it, expecting—well, he did not know what he had expected, but it only smelt of faint smoke.

Her hair—he had never seen a young lady with her hair down so: it was a rich dark river that fell nearly to her waist, well-kept and shining, without a single ornament or ribbon to interrupt the waves. Her bare arms—he remembered them all too well now, having not given them a thought at the time—had lean, fine muscle, nothing of the plump white softness that adorned every fashion plate and advertisement from London to New York. Her shoulders, too, had been finely formed, rounded with physical exertion, and her ankles in their stockings—here Lord Solo suppressed a dreadful emotion he liked to give little attention to—had been slender and fine and strong, her small waist promising a physique both lean and trim.

Something awful curled deep in his belly, and he shut his eyes to fight it, desperately trying to think of anything else, anything at all: cricket, and horses, and the railroads—all to no avail, as he soon found himself in a particular state of excitement. "Christ," he muttered under his breath furiously. Lord Solo was well aware of the dangers of self-abuse, having had them thumped into his brain since he was eight years old: blindness, weakness, tremors, and the loss of vitality. As such, he did not find himself regularly in a state conducive to onanism, but when it did happen, his procedure usually involved a liberal application of cold water until the problem took care of itself.

He got out of bed and made for the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Damn the woman for her fine little feet and ankles, and damn Clarisse for getting lost! Solo splashed his face and neck with freezing water from the tap, and kept his feet on the chilly tiles, and _finally_ his condition began to relieve itself, allowing him to pad back into his warm room and climb into bed.

* * *

"Dinner in _first class_ ," Rey said, almost in a fit. "I can't begin to understand why—"

"Oh, don't you see!" Ilsa exclaimed, her blond hair in braids for the night. They sat together in the general room, both wrapped in their coats over their nightgowns. "Lady Solo is a wealthy patroness, of course, and may wish to pay your way in America."

"I would never presume such a thing," gasped Rey. "Oh, what will I _do_? I have nothing suitable to wear to dinner in _first class_ : it is a wreck, it will be a disaster." Her sensible Sunday gown, which once had seemed so fine with its silk collar, seemed like nothing but rags beside what she had glimpsed hanging from the shoulders and draping about the bodies of the ladies in first class. Furs and silks and beads and jewels: she would stick out like a scullery-maid, and everyone would turn up their noses at her and scoff.

"Perhaps Miss Mary shall loan you a fine gown: she seemed quite kind and grateful." Ilsa patted her hand. "And at any rate, you shall be a guest there, and when you return you must tell us all about it. What you ate and drank and saw and who was there—oh, it will be a treat to hear!"

"Yes, it will, won't it?" Rey collected herself and smiled. "I suppose even if I am in my own things, I will have to just show them that clothes do not make the man—or the lady, as the case is—and be very proper."

"I did think Lord Solo looked at you strangely," confided Ilsa. "Such odd eyes: as if he's angry, or looking right through you."

"I thought his eyes rather…rather nice," Rey said. "Kind, but very occupied, you know, he was ever so worried about his fiancée." She thought suddenly of the previous night and the tableau playing out on the deck above: Lord Solo looking utterly despondent and Miss Mary's angry face as she marched out to him. There must be some private argument between them, then. His face had such interesting beauty marks: she wondered if the rest of him was spangled so, and immediately crushed down her thoughts lest they wander.

"We must be getting to bed," said Ilsa, yawning. "It is late, and you have such a day tomorrow!"

"Oh, I won't sleep a wink, for fear of missing it," Rey laughed, and off they went to their rooms.

* * *

Lord Solo woke the next day to find from Hux that, most agreeably, Lady Solo and Miss Mary Harkness had been invited to a private morning tea-party with Madeline Astor and several other wealthy ladies, and therefore would not be requiring his presence until dinner-time. He thanked the valet with gusto and got out of bed, throwing on a dressing-gown and taking his breakfast in the sitting-room.

He had never acquired a taste for tea, preferring coffee for his mornings. He was rather like his father in that regard: Captain Solo had never taken to most British customs, aside from hunting—

Quickly, Lord Solo put thoughts of his father and of hunting out of his head, and replaced them with thoughts of the rose on his night-table. "Hux," he called through the door, "I shall be exploring the ship today; no need to set out anything very fine."

"Yes, m'lord," Hux called back. Lord Solo lost himself in ham, sausage, omelet, buckwheat cakes, and honey. He would go down to steerage and find Madame Rey Nowak and perhaps Miss Hansen, and ask them to take a turn with him about the promenade, and he would return Rey's rose with as gentlemanly an apology as he could make. It would be entirely proper: they would be in public and strictly professional in their conduct.

And perhaps—Lord Solo stole a glance at his folio, untouched on the coffee table. Yes. Perhaps he might ask Rey what she thought of his concepts for new engines, and so prove himself not merely a foolish man with more money than common sense. He did not know why he wished to impress the young lady: only that he wanted to do so very much.

He finished his breakfast, got dressed in a good sturdy tweed suit, and put his hat on after combing his hair down to cover his ears. One quick glance in the mirror, and he was off, folio tucked under his arm and the rose in his pocket.

* * *

"Rey-chel!" Ebba bustled over to her where she sat in the bright general room, beaming, and deposited young Erik into her brown skirt with an apologetic stream of Swedish, pointing at the hall that led to the water-closet.

"Oh, of course I shall watch him, do go on," said Rey cheerfully, and bounced Erik on her knee as Ebba made for the lavatories in all haste. He giggled and tried to reach up for her nose, and she pulled a face, then another as he squealed in delight. "I suppose it's you and I for the present," she said, tickling his round tummy, "for Ilsa has become awfully sea-sick and cannot move from her berth. How dreadful, hmm?"

"Dreh-ful," Erik said, and grabbed for Rey's hat with chubby fists.

"Oh, no you don't," said Rey, and took it off quickly with her free hand, putting it on the bench beside her. "That is my _only_ hat, thank you."

"Eeehhh!" Erik reached for the ribbon insistently, and Rey held him back. " _Eeehhhh!_ " He was not to be deterred from his prize, not even with more tickles or the distraction of being turned the opposite direction. Erik straightened and fussed and kicked and wrinkled his face up, and Rey tried to keep her grip on him, but he slid out of her skirts as slowly as a glacier, loudly voicing his displeasure at not being allowed to mangle her hat.

Rey bent forward and pulled him back up into her lap firmly. "Now, see here," she said, quite stern as she turned him to face her, but her words died as she caught a glimpse of someone standing at the foot of the stairs into the general room from the above deck.

He was very tall, and wore both a hat and a jacket, and there was a leather book under his arm—but she recognized his face well enough, who wouldn't? Long and dour, with a wide mouth and a large, strong nose, all dotted with moles—it was Lord Solo!

Erik chose that very moment to reach for her hair, having caught sight of the pins, and Rey yelped in pain as his fat little fingers closed on a lock. Ebba emerged from the hall, scuttling over and admonishing her offspring with a loud burst of Swedish and a smack on the backside. Rey, scalp smarting, tucked the loose lock back into her knot, hoping he hadn't seen, but it was too late: he was walking across to her, and what was he _doing_ down here anyway?

"Madam," he said politely to Ebba, and nodded his head. She smiled, curtsied, and nodded, carting Erik off in her thick arms. He turned then to Rey, and she could not think of what to say or do at all. "Miss Nowak," he said, and held out his hand.

Rey picked her hat up with one hand and put the other into his, but he didn't kiss it this time, just helped her stand up. "Lord—Lord Solo," she managed. "I—what a surprise to see you here."

Lord Solo offered a half-smile. "I must say you made quite the picture wrestling with the boy. Feisty little fellow, isn't he?"

She felt more at ease and smiled back. "Oh, he's no trouble, only going through his twos, so they say, and wanted my hat as a plaything." She set it on her head firmly. "Is—how are your lady mother and Miss Mary?"

"Oh, they are having a private tea all day with Mrs. Astor, the Countess of Rothes, Lady Duff-Gordon, and all the rest." A shadow crossed the man's face, but was quickly gone like a flash. "I thought I might pay you a visit to return something you had lost." He dug into his pocket and came out with the silk rose, and Rey's eyes lit up.

"Oh! My rose! I could not find it for hours and felt so terrible: it was borrowed, you know, from Mrs. Nilsson's Sunday hat for our performance. Thank you, sir." She held her hand out, and he settled it into her palm carefully.

"And where is your friend, Miss Hansen? I had hoped to ask you both to walk the promenade with me, as it is a beautifully sunny day."

"I regret to say Miss Hansen has come down with the sea-sickness," Rey said, tucking the rose away safely. "But I will gladly be your company, if you like."

"Well, then," he said, offering his arm, "off we go."

Rey took his arm, holding her skirt with the other as they ascended the stairs. She could feel the strength in his arms as he moved: no padding here under his jacket or waistcoat to make his chest broad and deep. There had been a dancer at her last academy, a young man lithe and strong who could lift her above his head, and Lord Solo made that boy look frail by contrast. Rey wondered what on earth he did for amusement that had built him so: flinging logs into the air? Wrestling bears?

They turned about on the deck and went through the gate that separated third class from first, and then…she was _in_ first class. She wished at once that she had worn her Sunday best, but upon closer inspection, many of the young ladies walking about were dressed similarly: white clean shirtwaists and long skirts, sensible daytime hats of straw, or walking-suits. Why, nobody could even tell that her skirt was three years old, or noticed that her belt wasn't clasped with enamel ornaments. She even got a few nods from the other ladies, and returned the nods politely.

"What is that place there?" she inquired. "With the windows?"

"Oh, that is one of the cafes—I believe it is the Verandah Café." Lord Solo nodded his head. "Past it inside is the smoking room, and on the other side the children play."

" _One_ of the cafes?" She looked astonished. "Why, how many can one possibly have?"

"Let me think. There is the Verandah, the Café Parisien, the A la Carté restaurant, which is very private and exclusive, and the dining room." He smiled at the look on her face. "And on top of that there is a lounge, a reception room, and a reading and writing room for the ladies' exclusive use."

"A room just for _reading_ ," said Rey, awed.

"My lord," said a polite steward with a tray, "shall you take any tea or broth?"

"Both, thank you, and my companion and I shall take it on the leeward side," said Lord Solo.

Miss Nowak, amazed at the efficiency with which the steward set up their table, soon found herself in a calm spot, seated in a comfortable deck chair, sipping beef broth with one hand and nibbling a scone with clotted cream in the other. Lord Solo sat across from her, doing the same.

"I must say I have never seen such fine dancing," he remarked, setting his empty cup down. "You must have been trained by someone very knowledgeable."

"My mother taught me," Rey said, setting her cup down with great care. It was far finer than the steerage cups, and she didn't want to chip it. "Before she died—she died when I was eight. After that, I went from theater to theater, and was taught by many a teacher, but my favorite was old Monsieur. We never knew his last name, only called him old Monsieur, you see. He lived in a garret in Paris and was extremely strict with us all; used to say that I had ankles like a twig and I should never go _en pointe_ until I had built my strength up—so I did, and when he saw me do it for the first time he almost died of fright." A smile crept across her face. "Then I went to England, and got into Mme. Pavlova's school. My instructor there wrote me a letter of recommendation, and I shall present it to whoever I may when I get to New York. But I am sorry! I have been talking and talking all this time about myself, and you have been sitting there—tell me about yourself, sir, won't you?"

"I am afraid there is not much to tell," Lord Solo said. "You already know I have a mother traveling with me and a fiancée to boot—what you see, I suppose, is what there is."

"Oh, that is never true," said Miss Nowak, setting her saucer down. "No, no. The outside only reflects something on the inner character, and can never tell the whole story. You only knew I danced: you knew nothing of my story whatsoever. I only know you are a lord from England, as your lady mother is English, but your speech is American and so is Miss Mary. You must be excited for your wedding?"

Lord Solo never knew what possessed him to say what he said next. "I fear I very much am not," he confessed. "I—I am more afraid for it than even Clarisse, for she thinks of nothing but her dress and invitations and flowers and society and the parties she will throw once she is Lady Solo, and no longer Miss Harkness."

"But—but you do love her, yes?" Rey asked, looking quite taken aback. "Why, you wouldn't marry her if you did not love her, and I saw how very concerned you were for her yesterday."

"I—" Solo blinked in astonishment, and found himself quite at a loss. "What—what sort of question is that?"

"It's—I did not mean to offend, sir; it was only a question—" Miss Nowak looked pink in the nose, but showed no signs of apologizing or allowing him off the hook. "It's only that you looked so forlorn on the deck the night I first saw you—for I am sure that was you indeed, and Miss Mary coming to fetch you, and I wondered at the time why such a man as you would be so—"

"I do not need to—to justify my _personal_ life to—to—dancers," Lord Solo managed, completely flustered. "You—you are quite presumptuous in asking such a thing, Miss Nowak."

An ordinary woman of her class would have cringed away, curtsied, bent and groveled and apologized at the grave overstep of familiarity. Rachel Nowak did no such thing. "Presumptuous, am I?" she exclaimed. "Ha! I see. This is a marriage for money, and not for love at all!"

He was becoming quite upset at this point. "As if _you_ would not jump at the chance to wed a man of means!"

"I would never!" she retorted hotly. "I wouldn't take a penny from anyone unless it was honorably earned!"

"Oh? And how have you _honorably earned_ your money, then, madam?" Lord Solo leapt up quickly to bear over her, and she matched him, getting to her feet and glaring up into his face with all the righteous rage of an archangel.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're implying," she spat. "I sold everything I owned for my ticket: the clothes on my back and the things in my room to boot, and my mother's fine cameo brooch as well. If you think me a—a—woman of the evening, just say so, and be done with it!"

"Oh?" he snapped. "And what would you do if I called you so outright?"

"I'd—I'd—" She cast about, and settled her jaw. "I'd smash that teapot over your head!"

Lord Solo was quite shocked out of his indignation. Here was someone who was not going to weep and faint and wail and require fans and tea to recover from an insult. He almost laughed at the relief. "Indeed you would, and I would deserve it," he admitted.

Miss Nowak looked surprised. "I—I should not have pried into your affairs," she said quickly, and sat back down. "I apologize, sir, for vexing you so."

"You certainly shall not, for it was refreshing to speak plainly," Solo said, and sighed. "No, you had the truth of it. She is a spoiled creature with just enough sense to be cruel when she wants to, and knows hardly anything of life outside her parties and invitations and gowns."

"I am sorry," said Rey. "She seemed—she seemed as if she meant well when she offered me money."

"I believe you may be the first person she has ever met who was not a generation deep in wealth," Lord Solo said. "It was a shock from which she is still recovering, applying liberal amounts of socialization and tea, even at this very moment, in the company of Lady Duff-Gordon and Mrs. Astor."

Miss Nowak laughed. "Tell me," she said, pointing, "what is that book you carry? You've had it all day."

"Ah, this," he said, and pulled it out. "I fancy myself an engineer, you see, but I have not gotten the courage up to show Andrews or Ismay the designs. You must not laugh at them if they are bad." He handed her the folio, and she bent over it, opening it and peering at the drawings.

"You drew these?" she asked, fingers tracing the small, elegant signature at the bottom. "Why, they are very realistic. That is certainly a steam-engine—this must be a water-pump?"

"Yes," Lord Solo said eagerly, coming to sit at her side, "and this—" he turned the page, showing her the next one—"is something I should like to have patented: an electric motorcar engine. You would need only a battery: no need for burning gasoline at all, and it would be much cleaner and quieter."

"A motorcar engine," said Rey reverently. "I've seen one once—a gentleman came to the ballet in Paris driving one, and I crept out to look at it. Such a pretty machine." Her fingers turned the page. He had drawn diagrams of wheels and other small parts, and she praised them, all the way to the end, and Lord Solo's heart leapt in sudden shock as she uncovered—

"That is—that one, these in the back—it is rather private," he said quickly. "I had forgotten about them."

"Oh, no: it's lovely," said Rey, and tilted the folio up to look more closely and shield the paper from the eyes of the first-class. The drawing was done in a thin, fine charcoal pencil and shaded with delicate strokes: broad shoulders and arms outlined, a man seated, naked from the waist up, with one arm bent up, the hand tucked behind his head, exposing the shaded muscle of his side and under-arm. His face was shaded, a blur with no definable features. "It's like a Greek statue, or a fine painting. Was it drawn from life?"

"You might say so," Solo allowed. "It's a self-portrait."

Her eyes went a bit wide and she glanced up at him, then back down at the sketch. "Why, you draw bodies nearly as well as you draw machines," she said.

"And why not?" he asked, feeling a sudden sense of daring excitement. "Both are a machine of a sort."

Miss Nowak flipped to the next one and smiled. "Your lady mother?" Lady Solo's sharp eyes looked out at her from the paper, her hair braided, a robe closed at her throat: she appeared quite a bit younger, with dark hair, a finely formed face, and a soft mouth.

"As I remember her most: coming into the nursery to kiss me good-night," Lord Solo explained.

The next few pages showed a few half-done horse sketches, several dogs, and another self-portrait—this one of a nude male body viewed from the right side and twisted about to nearly face the viewer, torso, waist, and legs like solid pillars of marble. The skin, caught in a fold at the thick, twisted waist, was marked in careful lines: the right leg was slightly forward, shielding the viewer from anything too scandalous, and both it and the fine expanse of solid-looking chest were speckled in carefully drawn freckles, both large and small. "As you see, I do not flatter my subjects, so I would never make a good portrait artist," Solo joked.

She absently touched the line of the thigh on the paper, tracing from freckle to freckle. "I had wondered if you were marked so elsewhere," she said distractedly, and went scarlet as she realized what she had said. "Oh— _dear_ , I meant—I didn't mean—"

Solo found himself smiling like he hadn't smiled in months. "No, no," he said, pointing at his face, "I understand what you meant. Not the handsomest face, either: I don't care to draw it. Or my ears."

"Why ever not?" Miss Nowak smiled. "The only faces worth capturing are the ones that don't look like all the others, I should think."

Something quite warm and pleasant stirred below Lord Solo's heart, as if a thing long forgotten had been unlocked again. "I should think you correct," he said, "but come—we should walk about some more: our tea is cold and it's a glorious afternoon."

* * *

They had circled the deck several times and were walking along the railing as the sun began to sink toward the horizon. Lord Solo could not remember a more pleasant day spent in conversation.

"I must be frank and ask," he said as they watched the waves below, "what sort of name is Rey? That cannot be your Christian name."

"Oh, it is not," said Miss Nowak, smiling. "My given name is Rachel—Rachel Maria Nowak, and I thought to perform with a name everyone in steerage could pronounce. _Rachel_ sounds perfectly horrid in Norwegian."

"Rachel Maria," Solo said, as if tasting the syllables. "I do understand: my mother goes by _Leia_ when she is at home. It is a bad pronunciation of her middle name that I bestowed upon her at the age of two and a half."

"And what do you go by when you're at home, Lord John Benjamin Solo?" she inquired, pausing to look up at the sky.

"Ben," he said. "But only my mother calls me that. And my father did, when he was alive."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Miss Nowak said, turning to look at him. "Was it quite recent?"

"Two years ago," Lord Solo said. "It was—it was a hunting accident. I was... present." He tried to shut the ears and eyes of his memory, still so vivid: the report of the rifle, the hoarse cry, the stagger and the flurry of pheasant rising out of the brush into the cold English afternoon. "He died before we could get him back to Skywalker House."

Blood, and a hand reaching up to brush his cheek, _it's all right, my boy_ , and then all at once—the body was not his father any more, the spirit flown away and the eyes gone blank as the windows of an empty house, leaving him alone, alone with a terrible secret only he could carry forward. Lord Solo became suddenly very aware that there were tears in his eyes, and quickly fumbled for a handkerchief. Miss Nowak politely looked away over the sea to allow him to collect himself, and he realized that she was the only person he had spoken to of Father's death—he had not even talked about it to Mother, certainly not Clarisse.

"Is Skywalker House your family's seat?" she inquired, stealing a look back over her shoulder to see if he was composed.

"Ah. Yes." Lord Solo tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, having dried his eyes and forced himself into stoic solemnity. "A fine house. A great-grandfather built it, I believe. Four stories high, with a great portico, all made of fine white stone, with a garden, and orchards, and woods all about."

"Will you live there after the wedding?"

"My mother will," he told her. "When my uncle, the Duke, dies, the duchy passes to me, and I will go back there with Clarisse—until then, we will live in America. Her mother had a fine house built for us in Philadelphia and bought another in New York, and is leaving us her summer-home in Norfolk." All the better, too: he could send Clarisse to live in whatever house he was not presently occupying.

"It sounds very fine," Miss Nowak said. "I shall have to look you up and write you a letter once I obtain a proper address, and one can only hope that your valet doesn't sniff and poke at the paper too much to grade its quality." She smiled again, and Lord Solo returned it, thinking of Hux peering at an envelope with a magnifying-glass and proclaiming it Very Poor Indeed.

"I shall receive all and any letters you write myself," he said, "and treasure them greatly—as long as you promise to write and tell me when you are accepted into the ballet in New York, so we can come and see you dance."

She beamed. "I will make the theater-owners hold a box for you! As long as you do not spit out of it and ruin the floor seats' hats."

"Spit?" He pretended to be agog with shock, and affected a falsely prim accent. "My good lady, I should never spit; for I am a gentleman, and one of great repute—"

"Wot?" Miss Nowak screwed her face up to one side, putting on her best Cockney. "Th' good gennlemun's never spit? W', I nevah! C'mon, then, lad, I'll show ya how it's done!" She leaned out over the rail and worked her face up, made a coughing sound, and spat very finely, the gob of phlegm sailing out over the side of the ship and landing in the Atlantic.

Lord Solo laughed, unable to help himself, and not caring that a few other first-class passengers were giving him sideways looks. "All right, all right," he said, and leaned out, gathering as much saliva as he could with his tongue and doing his best to spit. It didn't go half as far as hers, splattering along the deck below, and they both spun around to pretend they had not been spitting, choking back laughter at the puzzled expressions on the faces of the people there.

"Where on _earth_ did you learn to—"

Miss Nowak laughed, red-cheeked with delight. "Oh, you know, when you've got people trying to look up your petticoat in the front row, you've got to be accurate—"

Lord Solo choked. "Do they _really_ —"

"Son," said a calm voice, and both whirled about in surprise to see Lady Solo, leaning on her stick, accompanied by Lady Duff-Gordon, Mrs. Margaret Brown, the Countess of Rothes, Mrs. Astor, and Miss Mary Harkness, all wearing inscrutable expressions.

"Mother. Good afternoon." Lord Solo immediately remembered himself and plastered on a polite veneer. "May I present Miss Rachel Nowak?"

Miss Nowak dropped a curtsy. "Lady Solo."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said the Countess of Rothes politely.

Clarisse shouldered forward and gave Rey a confused sort of once-over before tucking her hand into Ben's arm. "We have had a most entertaining morning in the Lounge."

"Indeed," said Solo. "I hope it was edifying, ladies."

They were thankfully saved from any further awkwardness by the bugler signaling for dinner. "Gracious," said Lady Duff-Gordon, "one would think themselves in His Majesty's Navy."

Lord Solo inclined his head to Rey, being unable to properly say his farewell, and was pulled forward by Clarisse, vanishing from sight in the crowd as they all went to prepare for dinner.

Only Mrs. Brown stayed behind, smiling at Rey. "You must be the little dancer Lady Elizabeth was telling us about," she said, and both her broadly comfortable American accent and her familiarity made Rey feel quite safe. "Invitation to dinner, huh, Miss Nowak?"

"Right," Rey said, feeling very nervous. "Only I have nothing to wear at all, and—and truth be told, I don't know quite what to do."

"Don't you worry about that. You come with me, and I'll get you set up properly." Mrs. Brown sailed off, with Rey in her arm like a tugboat tethered to a liner, and off they went toward the cabins to prepare for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Yes, people in 1912 and prior really thought masturbation would make a person weak, crazy, and stupid. Turn of the century scientific thought was amazing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Miss Nowak," he said, and bent to kiss her hand, his dark eyes fixed on her face the entire time. She could not look away: heat flushed her face as it did her gloved hand, seeping through the silk barrier between them. There might have been nobody else in the room, indeed on the entire ship, but for the pair of them. Her eyes were trapped on his, like a deer stunned by sudden movement. Then he straightened and let go of her hand, and the feeling stopped entirely, the world turning on as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring you this last update before we embark on the great Road Trip North to Washington State! No idea when I'll update next. If you like, you can come shout at me on twitter @urulokid.

Thirty minutes later, Rey felt transformed.

Well, not so much transformed—after all, she was still very much herself—but after being deposited in a very hot bath and scrubbed down by Mrs. Brown's maid from head to toe, then being sat on a stool in front of a mirror wrapped in a bath-sheet and having her hair tied and rolled and pinned into a sleek, fashionable coif, she felt like a caterpillar emerging from a chrysalis.

The feeling became overwhelming when Mrs. Brown, already dressed for dinner in respectable black lace and purple silk, bustled in with the most beautiful evening gown Rey had ever seen. "Oh, no, I can't," she gasped.

Mrs. Brown scoffed. "Oh, yes, you can. It's from the House of Worth, and I picked it up for my daughter in France—but she's about your size, maybe a little bigger. It'll fit you just fine, Miss Nowak."

Rey let the maid help her put on the proper undergarments, then the dress, which slithered on over her head and was tied back at the waist in a velvet bow, and she let the maid dab the barest hint of rouge on her cheeks and lips, then braced herself and looked in the mirror.

"Oh…my," she said faintly. The gown was raspberry and cream: velvet flowers on gauze and silk, hanging from her trim waist in a perfect column. It was slightly large, but not too noticeably. Above the respectable neckline, her face was bright and clean, and her hair perfectly done up. "Mrs. Brown…"

"And the shoes," said the smiling matron, setting them down herself. "Go on." Rey dutifully slipped her stocking feet into the ivory dinner pumps and wiggled her toes. The shoes fit perfectly. "Ah, I thought so. Perfect fit on the shoes, but Helen's a little plumper everywhere else. That's all right. You look lovely."

"I don't know how I'll ever repay you," said Rey, pulling on the long white gloves.

"You sit with me at dinner and let me talk your ear off, that's how," said Mrs. Brown, beaming. "All ready? Good. Let's go. Remember, do what everyone else is doing, and don't talk with your mouth full, and you'll be just fine."

* * *

Mrs. Brown walked with Miss Nowak to the Grand Staircase and waited at the foot with her, giving her a quick over-view of mannerisms and manners. "The forks and all will look terrifying. You work from the outside in for each course. Sit straight up, don't feel like you have to take everything you're offered, and let a gentleman pull out your chair for you when you sit and stand and all that. Oh, and you don't need to curtsy on and on, just bob your head like so." She dipped her chin to demonstrate. "You seem like an adaptable young woman, so I think you can handle the rest."

"I hope so," said Rey, feeling light-headed already, and not just from the fine corset.

"Oh, and look—there's your party now!" Mrs. Brown smiled in recognition up the stairs, and Rey turned around to see Lord Solo, walking quite slowly with Lady Solo and Miss Harkness on both arms. His eyes were fixed on her, and he had a most peculiar expression on his face, as if he did not quite know who she was. Lady Solo was gowned in a beautiful green velvet dress with a diamond tiara nestled in her dark gray hair, and Miss Mary wore golden silk and blue gauze, her chestnut curls piled up like a Greek empress. She had caught sight of Rey, too, and looked as if she was quite taken aback.

"My!" she said, as they alighted to the ground floor and met them both. "Look at you, Miss Nowak!"

Rey smiled modestly and inclined her head, like Mrs. Brown had instructed. "Thank you very much, Miss Harkness. You look lovely."

"It's astonishing! Why, you could nearly pass as a lady!" said Miss Harkness, and beamed thoughtlessly before turning to Mrs. Brown to greet her.

Stung, Rey blinked, but Lord Solo stepped forward. "Good evening," he said, and made a little bow.

Her hurt feelings were all forgotten as she stared at him. She had seen him in his dinner-dress before, but at a distance, and thought him fine, but up close, he looked handsome indeed, with the face of an Italian painting. He wore no hat, and his thick dark hair appeared to have been slicked back, but several stray locks had sprung free, brushing his brow—his white tie, his shirt, his collar and waistcoat were all impeccable; his jacket was cut perfectly to flatter his broad figure, and she automatically extended her hand to him. "My lord Solo," she said softly.

"Miss Nowak," he said, and bent to kiss her hand, his dark eyes fixed on her face the entire time. She could not look away: heat flushed her face as it did her gloved hand, seeping through the silk barrier between them. There might have been nobody else in the room, indeed on the entire ship, but for the pair of them. Her eyes were trapped on his, like a deer stunned by sudden movement. Then he straightened and let go of her hand, and the feeling stopped entirely, the world turning on as usual.

Rey felt quite unsettled and almost upset: how dare he look at her like that, when he had a fiancée he was going to marry? But he was turning round now, paying her no mind at all as he spoke to his mother, and then she was greeting Lady Solo and the fine lady was paying her compliments on her gown, and she was quite distracted by conversation until the bell rang and the doors to the dining saloon were opened.

"Ben, dear: escort our guest," said Lady Solo, almost as an afterthought.

So it was that Miss Nowak found herself on the arm of Lord Solo again: her gloved hand gripping his upper arm as she tried not to trip on her dress as they walked behind Lady Solo and Miss Mary Harkness, Mrs. Brown bringing up the rear. "Don't let me stumble," she said through her teeth as they approached the dining room.

"Never," he said.

They made it in and Mrs. Brown insisted on Rey sitting beside her, leading to Lord Solo pulling out her seat for her, then Mrs. Brown. Rey sank into it and looked down at the multiple sets of silver and the blue, gold, and white china in front of her. "You were right," she whispered to her companion, who was settling into her own seat to the right. "This is terrifying."

Mrs. Brown chuckled. "Don't you worry. You follow my lead."

Lady Solo sat on the other side, Lord Solo on her left and Miss Mary on Lord Solo's left, and gradually more gentlemen and ladies in their finery were seated and Mrs. Brown whispered into Rey's ear, "That's Mr. and Mrs. Astor—" or "Ah, Mr. Guggenheim and his mistress—" or "Sir and Lady Duff-Gordon, you'll remember them," and by the time the first course had been served Rey had memorized all the names and the faces that went with them.

They smiled at her and nodded across the table, thinking her some young heiress, and she did her best to smile back, nodding and sipping wine. "Miss Nowak, are you by chance of Czech blood?" asked Mrs. Astor, her young face bright with interest.

"Oh, no, ma'am," said Rey. "English, I'm afraid."

"Ah, of course," said Mr. Astor.

"Miss Nowak is a very talented ballerina, who I had the pleasure to witness at a performance earlier this week," said Lady Solo, and Mr. Guggenheim beamed.

"Ah, the ballet! Tell me, my dear, which school did you study at?"

Rey smiled back at the genial man. "Mme. Pavlova, of course! She is ever so talented, and I have heard she has invented a new sort of dancing shoe to make it simpler to perform _en pointe_."

"Easier, you mean? Would that not subtract from the talent required?" asked Lady Duff-Gordon.

"Oh, it's the subject of a dispute in the dancing circles. Some think it will take away talent, others say it will be easier to dance without injury to the body. I have not had the pleasure of using them yet, so I cannot say." Rey ate an oyster, mostly to stop herself from taking over the whole conversation with excitement, and fought to contain herself: the thing had the consistency of a large wad of mucus, and she forced herself to swallow it whole.

"No question to your talent, then!" said Guggenheim.

Miss Harkness, looking peeved at the lack of attention to her own person, decided to intervene. "Won't you tell us about the accommodations in steerage, Miss Nowak? I regret I did not see them on my tour."

"Steerage?" asked Madeline Astor, surprised.

Rey met Miss Harkness's gaze with her own, and smiled. "Oh, they're very fine, miss. Hardly a rat or a snake to be seen," she joked.

Astor chuckled, and the table followed suit. "Miss Nowak is indeed joining us from third class," said Lady Solo gently. "She was of great assistance to my future daughter-in-law." Stung at the reminder, Miss Harkness went silent.

Lord Solo spoke up. "Mrs. Astor, I'm sure you'll be more than happy to disembark when we finally reach New York."

Madeline Astor gave him a little smile and one hand automatically went to the rounded swell of her belly hidden under both the table and a strategically-cut gown. "Oh, yes. Travel is exciting, but there truly is no place like home."

"Isn't that the truth," said Mrs. Brown. "No offense to you, of course, Mr. Andrews—" The architect, sitting between her and Miss Harkness, smiled modestly and shook his head, as if to say _none taken_ — "but even Versailles couldn't hold a candle to good old home."

"Hear, hear," said the Countess of Rothes. "Miss Nowak, where shall you go once you disembark?"

"Oh, I expect I will inquire at any dance academies I can find, and perhaps ask to be a teacher, if they take no new students." Rey sipped at her wine and tried the second course. It was barley cream soup, and she didn't care for it much. "I have a letter of recommendation from my instructor at Mme. Pavlova's school, and it should see me through quite well."

The conversation naturally progressed, and by the fifth course, filet mignon, the subject was fashion, which perked Miss Harkness up considerably. "Your gown is so lovely, Miss Harkness," said Mrs. Astor, "who made it?"

"Oh, it is a Poiret, of course," said Miss Harkness, preening a little. "He is simply a visionary, in my opinion. I bought a bottle of his new perfume when I was in France, and it is heavenly."

"Lord Solo will have to keep you well supplied with French gowns," teased Lady Duff-Gordon. "And Miss Nowak, who made yours? The color is delicious."

"Isn't it?" Rey smiled. "It is, I believe, from the House of Worth. Mrs. Brown was ever so kind to lend it to me for the evening."

"Ah, Worth," said the Countess, smiling. " _Le plus gracieux des designers français_."

Miss Harkness turned her nose up slightly, smiling and casting a rather superior look at Miss Nowak. "Oh, my dear Countess: I don't believe Miss Nowak knows what that means."

Rey tilted her head and blinked at Miss Harkness, confused. Not know what it meant? She, who had spoken French since before she spoke English? " _Mais bien sûr que si. J'ai été élevé à Paris et je connais toutes les modes parisiennes._ "

Miss Harkness collected herself, quite taken aback, as Lady Duff-Gordon praised Miss Nowak's pronunciation and inquired as to which of the great fashion houses she liked the best. "I should be delighted to make you a fine dress once you have established yourself, of course—have you seen my own work?"

"I have not had the pleasure yet," answered Miss Nowak, sipping champagne, "but I have heard it is very lovely."

The dinner moved on, the conversation shifting to politics and other such matters as the desserts were served. Miss Nowak nibbled at her pears and eclairs and gossiped with Mrs. Brown (who had by this point insisted on being called "Maggie") and tried very hard not to look directly at Lord Solo, whose eyes she was sure she could feel on her, like a pair of branding irons. She chanced it in the middle of her ice cream and looked up. He was indeed looking at her, and as soon as their eyes met he looked down quickly, as if ashamed of being caught.

"Oh," said Lady Solo, answering a question from the Countess of Rothes, "yes, we have had to send for more invitations, and Miss Harkness still has yet to decide on the flowers."

"It is only that I cannot have chrysanthemums, neither can I have orange blossoms," explained Miss Harkness, and embarked on a great explanation of why, talking of Lady This and Mrs. That and what they had at their weddings. Rey felt quite out of place, and the feeling intensified as Miss Harkness went on: she had never considered being married at all realistically, and if she had ever envisioned a wedding, she had thought she would wear a sensible suit and a new hat, not a frothy confection of white lace and gauze silk as Miss Harkness described it, nor a church full of flowers and a reception after with a breakfast. It seemed a great waste of money to her, after all, and she felt very small and poor as she sat in her borrowed finery, listening to them talk.

At last, the dinner was over, and Maggie Brown whispered into Rey's ear, "Ah, this is where the gents all retire for brandy and cigars." Sure enough, Mr. Astor leaned over to kiss his young wife on the cheek and stood, the rest of the gentleman following suit.

"Coffee and brandy, eh, gentlemen?" he asked politely, smiling.

"Yes, indeed," said Lord Solo, rising himself, along with Andrews and Ismay and the others.

"Miss Nowak, you'll stay here with the ladies?" Maggie smiled, and Rey tried very hard to return it. She liked the woman a great deal, but even with mighty Maggie Brown at her side, she did not feel up to snuff on sitting and gossiping about tea or gowns or society at all.

Rey shook her head and set her napkin down, pulling her gloves back on. "I'm afraid I must be returning. A dear friend was indisposed this morning, and I have not seen her all day."

"Oh, send her our well-wishes," said Maggie cheerfully. "Poor thing."

Mr. Andrews came round and pulled out Rey's seat, and she stood as carefully as she could so as to not step on the gown. "I—oh, I must return this to you—" she said softly to Maggie.

"I'd almost forgot myself!" Maggie Brown let Mr. Andrews help her out of her seat. "Come along, then, Cinderella." She patted her on the hand with a grin. "We'll get you home before midnight."

Rey turned at the table and made a little curtsy. "Thank you very much for having me tonight, and—" she turned to Lady Solo, bobbing again, "thank you, Lady Solo, for inviting me. It was a pleasure."

"Not at all, not at all," said the fine lady, smiling. "Come, kiss me goodnight, child."

Rey stepped across and dutifully pecked Lady Solo on both cheeks, then stepped back. Miss Harkness was stoically not making eye contact, and Rey decided to not say a word about it—if she did not wish to bid her good-bye, she did not.

Lord Solo stepped forward and smiled politely, bowing a little, before taking her hand and kissing it. "Good evening, Miss Nowak," he said.

Rey curled her fingers as unobtrusively as she could around the small, papery object he had slipped into her fingers, and nodded. "Good evening, Lord Solo," she said.

* * *

She did not look at the item he had slipped her until she was back in Maggie Brown's stateroom, pulling her old things back on. It was a matchbook from the table, with nothing on it at all: but when she flipped the cover open, inside the flap was written in a familiar hand:

_G. Stair 9 PM_

Her heart leaped. What could _that_ possibly mean? She tucked the book of matches into her pocket and straightened her shirtwaist.

"I think our friend Solo there has taken a shine to you," said Mrs. Brown, coming back into the room.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Rey said, turning very pink.

"Oh, yes you do. He couldn't stop staring at you at dinner, and it put Miss Mary Clarisse off every course from third to tenth." Mrs. Brown laughed heartily, and shook her head. "In my opinion, which I know full well nobody asked for, people shouldn't get married for money. It leads to nothing but grief and bitterness. Marry for love, that's what I say. It might end sadly, but at least you can enjoy it. Make every moment count."

Rey's eyes went to the mantle-clock, and she realized she only had five minutes left until nine, and he was likely waiting—though for what, she did not know. "Thank you—ever so much," she began, "for everything, Mrs. Brown. I—Maggie, I mean. I should be going."

"Of course." Maggie Brown waved a hand. "You go on and have a nice evening, Miss Nowak. Good night."

"Good night!" said Rey, and hurried out, hat under her arm, racing back to the Grand Staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ah, Poiret. Joke's on Clarisse: that notable gentleman of fashion had the unfortunate fate of going bankrupt after the First World War and being outpaced and replaced in the industry by Coco Chanel.   
> -French translations: "The most graceful of the French designers!" "Well, of course. I was raised in Paris and I know all the Parisian fashions."  
> -Rey's borrowed dinner gown is a very real 1908 House of Worth dress, slightly outmoded for 1912. You can see it here: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/439593613625941953/  
> -Lady Duff-Gordon was a designer and innovator in fashion industry PR who specialized in lingerie AND invented the fashion show as we know it today.   
> -Mrs. Margaret Brown was actually not called "Molly" until the press started calling her "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" after the sinking of the Titanic. Her friends called her "Maggie".


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is an original, and nearly a hundred years old," said Lord Solo, climbing down off his crate and coming to stand by her. "By Merry-Joseph Blondel. It is called La Circassienne au Bain, and it is owned by a Mr. Steffanson, traveling first class. I was told it is the most valuable thing on the ship—I have sneaked down once or twice to make a few studies of the figure myself. What do you think of it?"

When Miss Nowak emerged from the door and approached the stair tremulously, Lord Solo was there.

Still in his dinner jacket, one hand pressed to the small of his back as he looked at the clock, his back to her, he made for quite the picture, and she stepped forward as lightly as she could, her feet inching across the marble floor. 

Lord Solo turned (he must have had ears like a fox), and his face broke into a happy grin, which took years off his face at once—in that moment she could almost see him as a little boy, playing with the dogs and horses he had rendered lovingly in his folio. His teeth were fine: large and white, if a little crooked—but the imperfection was endearing, not a detriment whatsoever. Her heart leaped. "Miss Nowak. You came."

"I—I did, sir," she said haltingly, and he descended the steps until he was right in front of her.

"I want to show you something," he said eagerly. "If you'll come, of course."

"Where?" Rey asked.

"The cargo hold. No, do not look at me like that—there is a particular thing I want to show you there, and I swear on my honor that I will be perfectly respectable." Lord Solo swallowed, his pale throat bobbing slightly. "You—of course, you are at liberty to refuse; I don't believe it's proper for gentlemen to take young ladies into the cargo hold, but—"

"Oh, damn propriety," said Miss Nowak, throwing all her caution to the wind. "As long as you do not keep me, I did promise to tell Ilsa all about dinner." She was quite curious to see what it was that he wished to show her: after all, she had wondered herself about the myriad of treasures in the hold.

Relieved, Lord Solo gave her his arm. "Only half an hour, then" he said, "that is all—" and they were off, hurrying through the corridors and down the great stairs into the bowels of the ship.

* * *

The cargo hold was vast, crates and barrels piled up: luggage and trunks and rolls of fine carpets: knotted ropes to keep them all from shifting, packages of every shape and size. Rey had never seen such a place, and kept close to Lord Solo as they walked: it was chilly down here, where only Belfast steel separated them from the murky waters of the North Atlantic.

Lord Solo seemed quite unaffected by the cold, and strode along, peering this way and that and muttering to himself. "It should be here, it should—a-ha!" he said triumphantly, and pointed to a large, rectangular object, thin and draped with a canvas, nearly eight feet tall.

"Whatever is it?" asked Rey, rubbing her arms.

Lord Solo leaped up onto the crate beside the object and reached up, pulling the canvas off in one smooth sweep. Miss Nowak watched in astonishment as the thing was revealed: a painting, done in oils, showing a life-sized young lady with dark hair all tied up, entirely nude with the exception of a bit of filmy cloth, twisted to the right, her right arm out. Her right foot was dipped into a bath, water flowing into it behind her, and she seemed about to step in fully. Her left arm clutched the filmy cloth between her breasts—both exposed—and her clothing was visible to the right of her, draped on the bench.

"It is an original, and nearly a hundred years old," said Lord Solo, climbing down off his crate and coming to stand by her. "By Merry-Joseph Blondel. It is called _La Circassienne au Bain_ , and it is owned by a Mr. Steffanson, traveling first class. I was told it is the most valuable thing on the ship—I have sneaked down once or twice to make a few studies of the figure myself. What do you think of it?"

Miss Nowak eyed it rather critically. "Well, the colors are lovely, and the talent fine, but Monsieur Blondel has painted her upper body too strangely."

Lord Solo's brow furrowed. "Strangely?"

"Yes, you see?" Rey pointed at the set of the figure's shoulders. "She stands as if she has injured her back." Miss Nowak copied the pose, bending her left leg behind her and extending her right arm out. "She twists so—and he has painted her navel too high, and her—" Miss Nowak shut her mouth tight, turning quite scarlet.

"Her what?" asked Lord Solo curiously.

"Nothing, only—" Miss Nowak screwed up her courage. "Oh, I must speak plainly, I see. Very well. Her waist is too high, and her chest too small, her—her _breasts_ too far apart, and one pointing the wrong direction, to boot!"

Lord Solo turned red and choked. "I—I must defer to your judgment in that regard, miss, as I have no standard to judge it by."

Miss Nowak covered her mouth to keep from laughing at his consternation. "Do not feel too bad, sir; none of the old painters get their ladies right. Half are too languid, half are badly shaped, or all shaped the same, and all of them without a single mark on their bodies, or any hair at all besides the stuff on their heads—it is not realistic at all!"

"Any—" Lord Solo blinked, voice momentarily stolen by shock. He had never considered for a moment that women might have _hair_ on their bodies: every classical painting showed them as plump and hairless creatures, like plucked chickens, and he had never had reason to think otherwise. The thought was at once intriguing and astonishing. Did they have soft down, like the stuff that sprouted from his lip at age fourteen? Or was it curly and rough, like his own hair?

Miss Nowak was watching him. "Oh, dear," she said. "I—I did not mean to be coarse. You did not know—"

"I—I did," he insisted, embarrassed. Then, repenting, "No, you are quite right, I did not. I ought to have my governess whipped: she taught me to never express my true emotions on my face, and I thought I had taken her lessons to heart—yet here you are, reading me as if I was a sketch in my folio."

She laughed. "Your governess is not at fault there, sir. I only—you have a perfectly stoic face, but there is a trick to reading it, and I think I have very nearly mastered the art. Have you truly never seen—a living woman's body?"

Lord Solo felt that if he could trust anyone, anyone at all, it was this honest girl with round dark eyes and an inquisitive face. "I—I have not," he admitted.

"Ah, which must be why you fear marriage," she said, as if it was to be entirely expected. "I had thought that all young lords went about like madmen as youths, carousing and carrying on, so that they were ready to marry when the time came. I see that is not the case."

"Oh, no, that is not why—well—" Lord Solo shook his head and laughed, slightly bitterly. "I dread the idea of—of—well, Clarisse."

"Oh," said Miss Nowak. "Well—she is likely dreading it all just as you are."

"I had thought of that. Do women—" He hesitated, and sat on the crate. Miss Nowak hoisted herself up beside him easily, a few inches between them, the life-sized woman on the canvas eyeing them both. "Do women hate it, generally?"

"Well," said Miss Nowak, trying to think. "I cannot say I have undergone the experience myself, but I knew girls at the academy who did, and they—they did not hate it at all. They made much of fluttering their eyelashes and squeaking and flashing up their skirts and pretending to run away, but they always talked at night in the dormitories, and I could hear them. I do not think well-bred ladies _expect_ to enjoy the marriage bed, so they perhaps do not—out of the fear of the unknown, you see."

"I hear there is blood," Lord Solo said, his hands curled around the edge of the crate, white-knuckled. "You may think me a coward or a child but—after Father—I cannot stand the sight."

"Oh, I do not; and not always," said Miss Nowak encouragingly, "often I hear young ladies who partake in such things as riding horses or strenuous physical exercises have no blood when they marry. I myself—" here she went quite pink, and shook her head.

"You—what?" pressed Solo, intrigued and mystified.

"Nothing, only—well—dancing is a sort of strenuous exercise. So I know for certain that I shan't have any trouble when—if—well." She rubbed her nose and changed the subject. "Gracious, it's cold down here."

"Oh, I didn’t think to—" Chastened, Solo swept his jacket off, and put it about her shoulders. "Here I am, going on about art and marriage, and you're meanwhile freezing to death."

Miss Nowak clutched the jacket tight about her, almost afraid to touch it. It was blessedly warm on the inside—the man must run like a furnace—and smelt faintly of cigars. "Will you be returning to the smoking room?"

"I suppose so," he said, sounding as if he would like nothing better than to never set foot in the place again. "I should rather stay down here. I am truly beginning to loathe it up there: nothing but polite laughter and tittering and politics and simpering—God! Do you know, when you shouted at me on the deck this morning—I had never liked anything so much in my life, for you were being honest, and that's something rarely come across with me. Clarisse is never honest; everything with her is sideways and sly, and my mother never says what she's truly thinking, either. I would rather have them shout and fling soup tureens than sit and look disapproving. I'm not meant to be a lord—look at me, for God's sake. Look at my hands." He extended them: pale and large, with blunt, thick fingers. "I should have been an engineer. I should be a carpenter with hands like this, or a steel-worker. Instead they do nothing but take brandy and coffee and read books and—and—a thousand other useless things."

"They're very good at drawing," said Miss Nowak practically.

He shook his head. "Yes, but does anyone care a half-penny for my designs but me? No."

"I do," said Rey, and Lord Solo turned to face her, searching her eyes for something hidden there.

"Oh—you do," he said, almost sounding surprised, or as if he had discovered something lovely where he had not expected it.

Rey became suddenly quite aware that something terribly warm was stirring behind her breast and curling into her belly—and lower—and it had nothing to do with the warmth of his fine jacket. Their faces were only inches apart: their bodies not touching, yet so close that they _could_ have been—if only he would move closer, if only he would—!

He leaned in closer, and she thought her heart would burst out of her chest with terror and excitement. Lord Solo stopped, an inch from her nose, and reached his hand up, gently tucking a loose strand of hair back over her ear, his fingers careful not to touch her skin. Her lips parted, the smallest breath, and the spell was broken, he was turning away. "I am sorry," he said, his voice rather strained. "I should not—I should not be so familiar."

"Will…will you escort me to my deck?" Miss Nowak asked.

"Of course," Lord Solo said. "Yes. You wear the jacket until we're out of this place; it feels like an icebox."

* * *

They came up into the General Room, and a cacophony of music and sound filled their ears as they emerged.

"Oh!" cried Rey in delight, "it is a party!" She clapped in glee, and Lord Solo had no choice but to follow her to Miss Hansen, who was wrapped in a shawl and looking much recovered, clapping along to the music.

In comparison to the first class orchestra, this band consisted of two Irishmen and a Scot with a bodhran, a set of bagpipes, and a fiddler, playing a merry tune as the whole crush of third class stamped their feet and danced along.

"How was dinner?" shouted Ilsa over the music.

"Lovely! I'll tell you all about it tonight!" bawled Rey into her ear.

Lord Solo stepped aside as a small blond boy of perhaps eight marched up and tugged on Rey's skirt, holding out his hand. " _Dansa_?" he shouted, bowing and doffing his ragged cap.

"Oh, hello, Oskar!" Rey primly put her hand in his and curtsied. Over his blond head, she grinned at Lord Solo. "Sit with Ilsa!"

Lord Solo dutifully took his seat by the blond girl. It was very warm, and he found himself sweating at the collar and tapping his feet. "You are feeling better, miss?" he shouted into her ear.

"Yes, thank you, sir!" she shouted back, beaming. "Oh, look at them go!"

He turned and watched, laughter bubbling up in his chest as Rey bounced about with little Oskar, to the right and to the left. She was laughing and the boy was beaming up at her. Solo thought for a moment of the prim dancing he had been trained in, and how very much more to his liking this sort of thing was: stepping into the music, feet gone mad, a full-bodied expression of joy.

"Here!" Ilsa said, and handed him a tall glass of dark beer.

Lord Solo sipped it. It was very stout and rich, and he coughed. Ilsa laughed and he found himself laughing, too: what a picture he must make in his waistcoat and shirt, playing the dandy down here with the steerage. He decided to forgo decorum—what was it Miss Nowak had said at the stair? _Damn propriety_ —and undid his collar, rolling his sleeves up and taking another sip of beer.

The song came to an end, and Rey maneuvered back over, laughing, Oskar in tow. "I'm going to dance with him now, all right?" she told him, leaning down and pointing at Lord Solo. Oskar shot the man an ominous look, but nodded and let go of her hand.

"What?" said Solo.

"Come on," she said, beaming, and took his hand.

"I don't—I don't know these dances—" Her hand was warm and firm and strong, and he found himself in the center of the floor, onlookers cheering. Ilsa had found herself an Irishman and was smiling shyly into his face beside them. "Miss Nowak—"

"Just don't think about it! Here, get closer—" She stepped in, and he found his body nearly pressed to hers, his hand automatically finding her waist to hold her. "There!"

"I _really_ must—"

The band struck up again, a jaunty reel, and Miss Nowak shouted, "Go!" and pressed herself against him, feet stamping.

Solo never could remember how he had managed to move. He only remembered a singular moment, shining and bright, where his mind, with all its painted-over, prim white doors of things he ought not to ever do had suddenly blown apart: all the gates open and letting out color, music, the sheer joy of having a strong body that moved as he told it to, and being in a place where nobody would care, or look askance. He whirled around with Miss Nowak in his arms, stamping his feet to the music, and she laughed and whooped and let him lead, and it was _joyful_ , pure delight, like he was a child again. It felt like running, like galloping on a horse. He had never felt so fine in all his life.

The feeling faded as Miss Nowak hitched her skirts up and got onto a table, kicking off her shoes. "What are you doing?"

"Watch!" She waited, on her tiptoes, and the piper played a quick little jig in the middle of the reel. Her feet moved, tapping down on the table, heel and toe, in time with the music, crossing back and forth so quick that he could hardly follow it. The others roared their approval and the piper stood, pretending to square off with her; ah, a contest!

He played the same little jig, faster, and she followed it perfectly: then again, and again, faster and faster until she was sweating and gasping; the piper's cheeks were blown out like balloons. The reel ended, and the crowd applauded, cheering, as Miss Nowak sat plump down in the middle of the table, fanning herself and laughing.

Lord Solo, clapping himself, reached up, and she clung to him tightly as he got her off the table, swinging her down like he might a child off a horse. "Well done!" he said, chuckling.

"Oh, my legs are gone to water," she panted, leaning on him.

"For the young lady!" shouted someone, and Lord Solo found a tall glass of beer pressed into his hand. He handed it to her, and Miss Nowak set her shoulders and tipped it up, drinking….and drinking….and drinking, until the glass was empty, before she handed it back to Solo and gasped, wiping her hand with the back of her mouth. Several men at the tables cheered and raised their glasses to her, and she laughed and waved them off.

"What?" she asked Solo, who was nearly gaping. "Never seen a young lady drink a beer?"

"No," he said honestly. Someone handed him a tall glass—it might have been his original glass, it might not have been, he didn't care—and he tipped it up, drinking and drinking, then putting the glass mouth-down on the table. Miss Nowak beamed, and he returned the expression, feeling as if her approval had gone quite to his head as much as the beer.

The rest of the night….the rest of the night passed in a blur. He was aware of more dancing, heat and light and the smiling faces of the third class passengers. More beer, good and strong, and he was quite sure that at one point he got on the table himself and danced a terribly-done jig to the Irish Washerwoman, but everyone cheered for him anyway. He sat at a table with a few Irishmen and had a loud, drunk conversation he couldn't remember the topic of after; he met an enormous Scotsman named Mackenzie who had shouted that he had better treat Miss Nowak with dignity, for she wasn't a plaything, then shaken his hand and said he was pleased indeed that a lord had come down; he danced with Ebba Nilsson, who giggled like a schoolgirl the whole way round the room.  

The evening, as all good things do, came to an end, and Miss Nowak gave him back his coat and helped him back to the first-class gate on the deck above. "You'll be all right, won't you?" she asked, steadying him. "Shall I call a steward to help you?"

Lord Solo leaned on her heavily, feeling pleasantly floaty. "I will," he said. "I—Miss Nowak, it's been a fine evening. Thank you very much."

"Thank you yourself," she said, smiling up at him. "For dinner and for the fine painting I saw."

He wanted to kiss her very badly. He was very drunk. "Miss… _Rey_ …" He bent, and she turned her head quickly, his mouth pressing against her warm, smooth cheek, smelling of lilacs. Immediately he felt ashamed. "I—I am sorry," he said. "I—" Bile rose in his gullet, and he turned away from her, gripping the rail tight until the contents of his belly had finished emptying themselves into the cold Atlantic.

"Too much beer, that's all," said Miss Nowak kindly, patting his back. "I shall call for someone to help you: I doubt you'll find your way back in this state." She waved her arms and called up, and a seaman came down with his electric torch, flashing it at her.

"Miss, what's all this?" he asked as he opened the gate.

"Thank you, sir! This is Lord John Benjamin Solo, and he's gotten lost and overindulged on beer: you might see him safe back to his stateroom, and tell his lady mother and his fiancée that he's all right."

"I will indeed, miss: thank you kindly." The man hoisted Lord Solo upright, one long arm over his shoulders. "Lord, but he's a big 'un."

"You might want another man, or maybe a crane," said Miss Nowak, mischief in her eyes, and the seaman laughed.

"No fear, I'll get him back safe. You'd best go on down below decks; it's late for young misses to be about."

"Of course; good night!" she said, and quickly turned about, so that she could keep the memory of the kiss safe, locked down in her heart where nobody might find it.

* * *

 _"How_ many courses?" asked Ilsa, hugging her knees to her chest.

"Ten, just like you thought: there was jelly and peaches and fine cream soups and filet mignon and ever so many greens and oh, so much champagne and wine!" Rey tied off her braid for sleeping and smiled down at the other girl. They had decided on sharing the Hansens' stateroom tonight: it was smaller, sleeping four, and Mrs. Hansen, being nearly deaf, slept like a log. "They had five spoons and five forks on both sides of the plates, and five different glasses: all the china was blue and gold. It was like a dinner with the King."

"Tell me about your dress again," Ilsa demanded.

"Rose-colored velvet and silk, with cream silk under it, and a big velvet sash," said Rey, poking her head over the side of the top bunk. "And shoes to match, of ivory silk. Miss Mary wore gold silk, and Lady Solo had green velvet: the Countess of Rothes was in cream and black—oh, everyone looked so fine."

"I will dream about it," said Ilsa, looking up at her from the bottom bunk. "Oh, it is like a fairy-story. I am sorry I missed walking about the ship with you and Lord Solo, too, for he seemed to have a much better temperament when he came down tonight."

"Oh, I expect that was the beer," teased Rey. "Good night!" Ilsa grinned and switched the electric light off, and Rey lay on her back under the blanket, wondering if Lord Solo had made it back to the stateroom safely. Her hand brushed against her cheek: it seemed she could still feel the kiss he had given her there, burning like fire under her skin.

 _No, he was drunk, and that is why he kissed you: it is improper—he is engaged!_ She rolled over and pulled her knees to her chest. _But he doesn't love her at all._ _Perhaps—_ no, that was too silly to even imagine. He was a fine lord who had a great house in England and three more waiting in America, and she was a—well, a nobody, a poor dancer with hardly anything to her name.

But… he had kissed her.

She drifted off to sleep, thinking of music and dancing and Lord Solo's dark eyes, smiling at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -La Circassienne was lost in the sinking, and was notorious for being the subject of the largest claim made against the White Star Line for the loss of a single item of baggage or cargo. Mr. Steffanson filed a claim for $100,000 (2.5 million in today's money) but never got it. All the cases against the line were settled together and WSL paid out about $644,000 in total.  
> -A bodhran is an Irish frame drum, small enough to hold with one hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarisse flung her napkin to the table, and got to her feet, red-cheeked. "How dare you? You went to steerage, alone, with a woman you hardly know—how do you think that looks? Are you an idiot?" She placed both her hands on the table, practically shaking with anger. "I will not marry a philanderer."

"M'lord, it's past eight."

Ben groaned. It was too early, the lights were too bright, and Hux's voice, nasal and clipped, cut through his headache like a knife. "Christ, man, close the curtains," he groaned.

"Sorry, sir. Miss Harkness has requested you join her on the verandah for breakfast." Hux busied himself with laying out Solo's clothes.

Very slowly, Ben inched one foot out, then the other, and forced himself upright. He was clad in only his drawers and undershirt, having not had the presence of mind to change into his pajamas last night.

Last night. Last night… Ben pressed his fingers to his temples. He remembered the beer, and dancing, and Miss Nowak in the briskly cold night air—a kiss on the cheek—

He had enough presence of mind not to make a sharp motion, lest Hux see it. God, he hadn't. He couldn't have. But he remembered doing it, clear as day, leaning in and his mouth finding her cheek, smelling of lilacs, lilacs… Clarisse used jasmine as her scent, and he had never cared for it: too cloying and sweet. Lilac was sharp and awake. He wondered if women somehow gravitated to scents that mirrored their personalities. He wondered if he was still drunk.

Solo heaved up out of bed and put on his slippers, pulling on his dressing-gown and belting it tightly. He would not think about the attempted kiss. So long as he did not remember it, then it did not happen, and he resolved to put it out of his mind.

Clarisse was on the verandah, sitting in a wicker chair and wearing a filmy breakfast gown. He barely noticed it as he sank into his seat and poured himself a cup of coffee, swallowing it down. "Good morning," he said, after finishing the cup, and poured himself another.

"Where were you last night?" The question was even, pointed, and direct: very unlike Clarisse.

Solo raised his eyes, and saw that she was very pale, her eyes red, and she was not looking at him. "I was out," he said.

"Out. _Out._ You did not come back to the stateroom until past midnight on a Sunday morning; you were _drunk_ , and Mother Leia had to assist Hux and the seaman who'd found you into getting you to bed!" Her voice was trembling with some repressed emotion.

"I was out, and I was drinking," he amended mulishly, and gulped down more coffee. Had her voice always been so grating, or was that merely his headache?

Clarisse set her teacup on its saucer very delicately. "Mrs. Astor's maid came to call on Violet early this morning. She said that she was out last night running an errand, and that she had seen _you_ , down on the steerage deck with that—that— _ballerina_ , and that you had—had made an inappropriate expression to her."

Lord Solo forced a laugh past the ice in his gut. "An inappropriate expression? To Miss _Nowak_? You ought to inform Mrs. Astor that her maid is a gossip, and a blind one at that."

"Oh, then you deny it? You deny that you went down to steerage with that girl? That you didn't come back until past _midnight_?" Clarisse's voice was high and angry.

"Of course I don't deny it," said Solo, and she blinked in astonishment. "Good God, Clarisse. I went down to pay a visit to the pianist, you remember? Miss Ilsa Hansen? The one who was taken ill?"

"Wh—who?" Clarisse looked taken aback.

"Miss Hansen, the young lady who played the piano. If you paid a little more attention at dinner to the conversation instead of thinking about what you're going to wear to the next one, you might learn a thing or two," snapped Solo, buttering toast. "I met Miss Nowak after nine and she escorted me down to steerage, we visited Miss Hansen, I wished her well, we found our way to the general room and got caught up in a—well, a sort of party, I suppose: there was a lot of beer and I spent most of it shouting over the noise at a pack of Irishmen while Miss Nowak danced about with an eight year old boy. By midnight I had quite overindulged, and Miss Nowak graciously assisted me up the stairs and found a seaman to take me _here_ , but I suppose you would rather have had her leave me in steerage, and let the officers find me dead drunk on the floor at six in the morning: I'm sure that would not have been a scandal whatsoever." He shoved the toast into his mouth and chewed furiously.

And of course, it was a half-truth: of course it was true _enough_. Clarisse was silent: he continued to work his way through breakfast without another word.

"You will never humiliate me like that again," she said coldly as he was finishing his baked apples.

"How have you been humiliated by _me_?" Solo looked at her incredulously. "Because Miss Nowak joined us for dinner, at my mother's invitation? Because you insisted on acting as if she was filth on your shoe all night, and embarrassed yourself when she spoke French at table? Because you tried to shame the young lady twice in front of all our dinner companions? As if she could help her condition in life at all."

Clarisse flung her napkin to the table, and got to her feet, red-cheeked. "How dare you? You went to _steerage_ , alone, with a _woman_ you hardly know—how do you think that looks? Are you an _idiot_?" She placed both her hands on the table, practically shaking with anger. "I will _not_ marry a philanderer."

Solo did not care that he was in dangerous territory. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height of six foot three inches, towering over Clarisse. "You would _never_ call the wedding off; it would be too much of a scandal, and you couldn't bear it. That being said, I never touched the young lady. If you think me a philanderer, go on! tell your maid, and Madeline Astor, and Lady Gordon and the Countess of Rothes and Mrs. Straus to boot: perhaps you will garner the attention and sympathy you crave from them. You will get none from me, madam!"

"You _brute_!" she cried, furious at her bluff being called, and fled the verandah without another word.

Incensed at himself and at her and at the whole sorry business, Solo swept everything on the table off it in an outburst of fury, and it crashed to the floor in a great tinkling cascade of shattered china, glass, food, tea, and spoons. He collapsed into his wicker chair and let out a shout of rage, then buried his head in his hands.

Their maid came running in at the noise, eyes wide. "Oh—m'lord, let me—"

Ashamed at his behavior, he shook his head and knelt, his dressing-gown sopping up the spilt tea. "No, no—I am sorry, Bess, it was an accident—it was—let me help you—"

"Please, sir, don't worry yourself," said Bess, gathering up shards of china and glass. "I'll just go get the broom, and—why sir, whatever is the matter?"

Solo was crying, tears blurring his vision as he picked the spoons and forks out of the mess. He scrubbed a hand across his face and sat back against the chair, his head bent, and Bess handed him her handkerchief, and he most gratefully accepted as she went about the business of clearing the mess away, as if it had never happened.

* * *

Dressing for the day was a task Lord Solo had cut down to fifteen minutes by now, with Hux's help. He was buttoning his shirt and Hux was brushing down his coat when the door opened and Lady Solo strode in, steel in her eyes and a set to her mouth that Solo had learned to be wary of at the tender age of three.

"Out," she said tersely to Hux, who departed at once with a bow. The door shut behind him, and Solo turned to face his mother.

"Mother," he said.

She gave him a long, even look, and sat herself down in one of the chairs at his table. "I hear you accompanied Miss Nowak below decks last night," she said.

Lord Solo could lie and bluster and hedge at Clarisse. He could not lie to his mother. "Yes," he said.

"The seaman who brought you back last night—or, more truly, this morning—said the young lady was very polite and asked him to inform Clarisse and myself that you were all right, only very intoxicated." Lady Solo gave him another inscrutable look. "Miss Harkness is currently sobbing her eyes out in our room, and will not rise. You will tell me the truth. Did you make advances upon that girl?"

He blinked. "I don't know what you mean by _advances_ —"

"Did you—" Lady Solo stood, agitated. "You know precisely what I mean. Did you dishonor her? Did you dishonor Miss Harkness, your engagement, our family name? Is the young _ballerine_ ruined, and our family along with her? Tell me, Ben!"

"I did not," Solo said coldly, absolute fury rising in him again at the assumption: did _everyone_ think him some sort of hot-blooded animal? "But rest assured, Mother, if I had, and she found herself with child, I should do exactly as my own father did, and marry her on the spot, so as to save the family _honor,_ as that is all that matters to you."

Lady Solo boxed his ears. He yelped and staggered sideways, his head ringing like a bell, and caught himself on the bedpost. "How dare you," she said. "How _dare_ you mock me? I have done all I could to ensure your future is secure and sound, and you repay my years of work by flinging it all out the window for a young lady of no means whatsoever, whom you have known for only two days. And while I am fond of her myself—and by no means do I believe she is a woman of dubious morals, her conduct alone shows that—you are not to see her again, Ben, do you understand me? I forbid it."

Something terrible and hot was unfolding, just below Solo's breast. He did not recognize it at first, having had most remnants of it beaten out of him as a child, or forgotten, but as the feeling went on, he realized what it was: rebellion. "Then I will not wed Clarisse," he said mulishly. "She can be free to marry anyone she pleases, anyone who fits her temperament better. Not me. I will call the engagement off."

"You have gone mad," said Lady Solo, and gripped his sleeve. "The woman is your fiancée. You cannot bow out now: you would disgrace her entirely, and you would gain a reputation as a man who ruins girls' prospects. You would never find a suitable wife, and your title would be meaningless, and once you passed, it would be extinct. _Extinct_." She shook him. "Don't you understand: I care not a whit for my own name, or for society or parties or aught of it, you thoughtless boy—I've done this all for _you_."

Solo felt shame flood him. Yes, of course she had, hadn't she? She had wed his father for love, not for money, and reaped the consequences of that: debt and gambling and whispers behind hands until the man had died, and now sought to save him from the same fate. He had not given a thought to her motives, and now he understood, and he bent his head. "I'm sorry, Mother," he said.

"I know Clarisse can be…trying," she said, patting his arm with a tired sigh. "You need only deal with her for a few more days, and once we disembark in New York she will travel with her mother. Once you're married and get an heir on her, you may send her back to England, if you like, to stay with me at Skywalker House." She smiled, and it seemed she was thinking of something very far away. "We might have the nursery repainted."

He took his mother's wrinkled hands in his. "I should like nothing more than to give you a grandchild, Mama Leia," he said softly, and she smiled at the old name. "If only my dear wife will cease being _trying_ long enough to let me."

Lady Solo chuckled and squeezed his hands. "Oh, you shall have no trouble. She's young and comes from a prolific family indeed. Why, her mother is one of eight! Imagine." Her face settled into seriousness again. "But I must have it from you, Ben: I want you to swear to me that you will not seek out Miss Nowak again, ever."

Miss Nowak, indeed. Solo's heart sank a little, as he thought of her sweet mouth, her lovely eyes, her threats to smash a teapot on his head, and her spirit: her kind heart, and how she had bounced the child on her knee, and her frank demeanor—all the things he liked so much about her. He would have been well pleased to have had her as a friend only, and remembered her promise to write him, and felt terribly guilty.

"Then for you, Mother, I promise." Solo bent his head slightly. "It is not fair," he added, in a low voice, and his mother sighed.

"It is life, my dear. Life itself is not fair." Lady Solo stepped back and gave him a long look, then sighed. "Come, put your coat on. We have a fine morning ahead of us, and it falls to me to tempt Clarisse from bed using promises of tea after Sunday services with Lady Duff-Gordon and Mrs. Astor."

* * *

Sunday services aboard ship were conducted by Captain Smith, a venerable man with a fine white mustache and beard who stoically stood at his pulpit, looking out over his first-class flock in the dining saloon, properly dressed in their Sunday best and singing along to the hymn.

Lord Solo felt…dull. There was no other word for it. He stood between his mother and Clarisse, singing "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" along to the piano in his starched collar and Sunday jacket, standing straight-backed and proper as he could.

Eternal Father, indeed. Solo, while baptized Anglican, of course, had never possessed any sort of religious fervor—a grandfather had joined a monastery of some sort; Jesuit, wasn't it?—and thought quite bitterly, although it might have been blasphemous, that the only Father he had known had most certainly not been Eternal whatsoever.  Not that he cared much about blasphemy, but Mother was sensitive to that sort of thing, so he kept his religious opinions to himself most of the time. Perhaps it came from his father's side, that American streak in his blood—no state religion, no enforced social displays of piety whatsoever, the freedom to choose for oneself what one might believe. His father had expressed varying views at varying times, and had not seemed to care much what was true and what wasn't, which had been fascinating to Solo as a youth. Mama Leia never wavered at sending money to the Missionary Societies or any other aspect of her beliefs, and insisted that the Bible was an excellent guide for life, but at the same time, no one could precisely call her a zealot. She was far too practical for that. She had, however, insisted Ben learn the Our Father and say it every night. Solo tried to remember the last time he had said his prayers before bed, and could not. It had been years, most likely, surely long before Han had died.

Our Father, who art in heaven.

Our Father who art shot dead in the woods.

Solo brought himself away from the memories of a cold afternoon and pheasant fluttering, back to the service with a little shudder, and sat as everyone else sat, and paid attention as Captain Smith droned on about being kind to one's fellow man.

* * *

After services, they had a fine stroll about the promenade with Mr. Andrews and Captain Smith, who were more than happy to show them about the bridge and the boat deck.

"Why are there two steering wheels?" inquired Clarisse, hanging onto Solo's arm.

"Ah, the one there is only used near shore," said Captain Smith. A young seaman came in quickly with a piece of paper, and handed it to the man.

"Sorry, sir, it's another ice warning," said the young man. "From the _Baltic_."

"Thank you, Burns," said Smith, and smiled at Clarisse's expression. "Not to worry, my dear; quite ordinary for this time of year. You might be able to see some fine little bergs from your stateroom window tomorrow—they are quite lovely. Shine like diamonds in the sun!"

"Ooh!" said Clarisse, and smiled. "I should like that."

They went round to the boat deck and Mr. Andrews proudly explained the mechanism of the collapsible boats stowed above the officer's quarters, and waxed poetic about the elm rudders of the clinker-built lifeboats and the fine craftsmanship. "We also have plenty of water, biscuits, blankets and lifebelts—of course, for fear of theft we have had to lock some of the supplies away," he confided to Lady Solo.

"You have twenty lifeboats in all, then?" asked Lord Solo.

"Yes, sir," said Andrews. "But I doubt we shall need them, at any rate—why, the _Titanic_ is practically unsinkable, with sixteen watertight compartments to stop flooding. She could stay afloat if four of them were flooded, sir."

"How many do the lifeboats hold?" asked Clarisse, looking as if she was concentrating very hard.

"About sixty, Miss Harkness," said Mr. Andrews.

"Oh, then they hold—they hold—" Clarisse hesitated, trying to do the sum in her head. "Nearly everyone on the ship, don't they?"

"About a third of the people on the ship in all," said Mr. Andrews graciously. "I expect in case of an emergency, they shall be used to ferry passengers back and forth to another ship—though that shall not happen, as the _Titanic_ is nearly unsinkable."

"A masterpiece of engineering," said Lord Solo, and Mr. Andrews smiled proudly.

"That she is, sir, thank you."

As they turned about to walk down the starboard side of the boat deck, Solo felt the call of nature, and sighed inwardly. At least he would get a respite for a brief moment. "You'll excuse me for a moment, ladies?" he asked.

Lady Solo nodded. "Don't take long," she said, and tucked Clarisse's arm into hers, the pair of them sailing away behind Mr. Andrews.

Solo ducked quickly inside, hurrying down the hall to the communal lavatories. He shut the door, used the facilities, washed his hands, and stepped back out after a quick look in the mirror. He turned in the hallway and had just made it back to the foot of the grand staircase when someone bumped into him, and he jerked upright in surprise.

"My apologies, ma'am," he said automatically, and turned, looking directly into the large and startled eyes of Miss Rachel Maria Nowak.

* * *

Rey smiled at Lord Solo brightly, but he did not return the expression, looking rather as if he was about to be ill. Her face fell. "My lord? Are you—"

"What on earth are _you_ doing here?" he asked under his breath, stepping closer so as not to attract attention.

"Why, Lady Duff-Gordon invited me to take tea in the Café; she was ever so delighted to sit and talk about costumes for the ballet. I have only just left." She blinked up at him. He was very close. Perhaps he was outraged at her appearance? Rey smoothed down her blue dress, self-consciously. "I know my dress isn't quite as fashionable, but it's my Sunday best, and I didn't want to impose on Mrs. Brown for—"

"To hell with your dress," he said angrily, and she stepped back, quite startled at his tone.

"I—have I offended you in some way, sir?"

"You—you—" He could not speak, could not force himself to say it. Solo cast his eyes about, looking for somewhere private, and found it: the gymnasium was deserted, and had opaque glass windows. "Come with me," he ordered, and gripped her by the arm.

Rey stumbled along as quickly as she could, half-frightened. He was extremely strong, much stronger than her, and he half-pushed her into the gymnasium before shutting the door behind him and kicking a stool in front of it. They were entirely alone in a room; what on earth did he mean to _do?_ "I _really_ must protest—"

"You cannot be here," Solo said directly. "I cannot see you again, or speak to you."

Her mouth fell open, and tears sprang into her wide eyes, but did not fall. "I—what? Have I done something I ought not have? Did I offend your lady mother?"

Solo shut his eyes, looking as if he was wrestling with himself. "No. No, you have done nothing at all. The only thing you have done, miss, is to be on this ship at the same time I am, and having encountered you, I find myself entirely—entirely—" He could not say it, could not. "I am to be married," he tried. "I have a fiancée. I cannot—I—"

"I don't understand," Rey said, shaking her head, the tears falling now. "We were to write each other in New York: you were going to come to all my performances—"

"I have promised my mother and Clarisse that I will not see you again," he said. "It—it is for the best."

She went white. "You have toyed with me, sir," she said. "You tried to make advances upon me, and pretended to be my friend, and asked my opinion on all sorts of things: I can only assume you thought of me as some—common distraction, and now that you have been found out by your lady mother and your intended, you are angry that you cannot play with your little doll anymore."

"That is not—" he began, infuriated, but she was not done, her voice rising.

"Or perhaps you thought to look me up in America to make me some sort of— _mistress_ , like Mr. Guggenheim's fine companion? How dare you!" She was nearly standing on her toes, puffed up like an angry bird, tears still wet on her cheeks. "Well, sir, I cannot be _bought_ with any of your money; I should rather die, and no sum on this earth could ever entice me now to even touch you!"

"I never thought of such a thing in my life," Solo said sharply. "I would never have presumed to proposition you so: I know you are a stubborn and honest woman, and a fool to boot: Clarisse's twenty dollars would have set you up for a month in New York, and you turned it down—for you had not felt you earned it. Or perhaps you are a very clever woman, after all: for from turning down the money came your tea with Lady Duff-Gordon and talk of the ballet—you have found yourself a probable sponsor, have you not? Ah, very clever of you indeed, Miss Nowak."

"You are only angry because I don't need you to invite me up to your fine first-class deck," Rey said, bristling, and that cut him to the quick. He had not realized it himself, and became even angrier when he realized she was right. Solo marched forward, and she reversed direction quickly, until her back was against the wall and he was inches from her face, their bodies nearly touching. She stiffened, looking up at him: his face was severe and stern and his jaw was clenched.

"I made my mother a promise," he said, controlling his voice with some difficulty. "To not seek you out again, nor speak to you. She was convinced I had ruined you; Clarisse was sure I had done the same; now you accuse me of wishing to do so—Christ Almighty, I cannot win no matter to whom I turn, and I am sick to death of women thinking me some sort of ravishing brute."

"You kissed me," said Rey, and there it was, out, in the four inches between them both.

"I—" Lord Solo shut his eyes. "I was very drunk. I should not have. I am very sorry I did it, and for any indignity it caused you."

Rey shook her head and wiped her face with her hands, sniffling slightly. He stepped back and offered her his handkerchief, and she took it. "It did not cause me—indignity," she said. "Only—only some confusion, but I—it—it was not unwelcome."

Solo shut his eyes and put his hand to his head. "Don’t," he said softly. "Please. Miss Nowak—I beg you, do not make this any more painful for the both of us than it already is."

"The—the both of us," repeated Rey, frozen with his handkerchief in her fingers. "You mean—you mean to say—"

"Miss Nowak—"

"They will iron it out of you," she said, fresh tears falling. "All your heart and your joy and your engines, your dreams and your designs; it will all be steamed out of you like wrinkles in a shirt, and you'll be _miserable_ all your days."

"Then I will be miserable," he said sullenly. "But I cannot let all my mother has done go to waste, not when she is trying to save me from her own fate."

"The fate of marrying a man she loved?" demanded Rey.

"The fate of marrying a fool who gambled all the family's money away and left his wife and son with _nothing_ but a name," he said in a very cold tone, and Rey went pale. "If not for my uncle never marrying, I shouldn't even be a duke. Clarisse's hand comes with a substantial amount of money, and my mother wishes that I do not live my days in disgrace, so. There is the truth of it."

"I—I am sorry," she said, her face gone quite blank and shuttered. "I should not have pressed you, my lord. You must do as you will, of course, and it is none of my business. I know we cannot—that it cannot be, of course, I have known that since meeting you: but I feel that you should have the hope—that if a poor dancer can love you, then perhaps Miss Harkness will come round and love you, too, and you—you will be quite happy together, until the end of your days."

Grief pierced Solo's heart like a knife. "I—I must go," he said, half-choking with emotion. "Please—think kindly of me, when you do, Miss Nowak. It will be a great comfort to know that someone does."

She nodded quickly, her eyes downcast and her lips pressed thin. He bowed as politely as he could and left the room, pretending there were no tears in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY TO LEAVE IT LIKE THIS but today is Plane Day and I won't be back on the ground for I think something like....25 hours? Anyway please enjoy and feel free to shout about it at me on twitter @urulokid !


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without another word, he stumbled away from the table, and as soon as he had made it out to the promenade, he took off running, running like he had never run before. He did not care that people were watching in shock and astonishment, or that he had forgotten his hat—he had air in his lungs, wind under his arms, and the blood was pumping in his veins. Something was flying in the wind with reckless abandon just as he was. Something had broken free at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lived, bitch
> 
> So we're safely put up in lodging on Okinawa, the jetlag has got me good (I keep falling asleep at freaking 8 and waking up at 6 AM), and I hope the time difference won't be TOO much of a pain in the ass for you guys. It's Sunday the 24th at 10 AM right now and I think in the States it's like... 6 PM on Saturday the 23rd. Hi from the future, and enjoy the chapter!

Miss Nowak made with all haste to the third-class deck, where she tucked herself away at the bow and stared out blindly to the horizon, weeping as though her heart would break. She was far too self-possessed to have cried at all in Lord Solo's presence, but here it was safe, with nobody about due to the chilly sea-breeze that streaked the tears back away from her face. Her coat was just warm enough for the wind, so she sat alone for what felt like hours and hours.

Ilsa ventured up about tea-time to bring her a biscuit, and she ate it and cried some more, leaning on her friend's shoulder while the girl patted her back and said a lot of heated things about Lord Solo that made Rey cry even more.

"It would be easier if I hated him!" she wept. "But I do not hate him at all, Ilsa; I do not, I cannot, and oh: I wish I could!"

"It will be all right," Ilsa tried to console her, and she stayed with her for a while, before going back down below decks to get out of the bitter wind.

* * *

Lord Solo sat in the lounge, staring off into space with a polite look plastered onto his face as his mother and Clarisse discussed ribbon colors and flowers for the upcoming nuptials.

He had done the right thing, by all accounts. He had cut off his friendship with Miss Nowak neatly, somewhat politely, and with as much dignity as he could muster: he had saved his engagement to a wealthy young woman and made his mother proud.

Then why, _why_ did he feel so wretched?

Solo's eye was caught by a family, sitting several tables away: a young mother, a girl and a boy who couldn't have been more than five or six. The mother was leaning over, admonishing her children, and as he watched, the children sat up straight, the girl primly copying her mother and putting her napkin in her lap. The boy, at a stern word from his father, reluctantly set aside the small toy horse he carried, and folded his hands in his lap, his head bent forward in an attitude of sullenness.

How old had he been when Mother had told him to leave his toy soldiers in the nursery? Four? Five, perhaps? Solo suddenly realized that there must have been an afternoon he had come in from playing in the garden all day at Skywalker House, and never gone out again, to take up his imaginary battle against bears in the hedges, or fairies in the well. He had had a stick—the shape and feel of it jumped into Solo's mind, solid and clear as if he had just closed his fingers round it again—a stick, that had been his sword and his walking-staff all at once. He had loved that stick. He could not remember what had happened to it.

The young mother was whispering softly now, indicating Solo as she spoke to her slouching son. "You see that fine lord there? You must sit straight, like that, and you shall be very tall like him when you grow up."

 _When you grow up_. Solo felt as if he was still waiting for that to happen. He wanted to call out to the boy, to say, _no, I am not a grown-up at all, I am only five, and I want to go out to the garden and fight back the wizards in the woods—come with me._ But that was ridiculous, of course: he was thirty years old, nearly thirty-one, and supposed to be married, to boot: somewhere between the nursery and boarding-school he had forgotten all about the bears and the fairies and the castles he had built out of nothing in the hedges.

"Clarisse," he said quite suddenly, his eyes fixed on the children.

Both Lady Solo and Miss Harkness jumped, startled, at his sudden interjection into their discussion of bridal gown lace. "Lord Solo?" ventured Clarisse.

"What did you play at, as a child?" The little girl was trying her best to sip her tea without spilling it.

"I—pardon?" Clarisse sounded mystified.

"When you were young. Did you—certainly you played. In the garden, or the nursery?" Solo tore his eyes away from the girl and looked at Clarisse.

"I—" Clarisse hesitated, and gave Lady Solo a worried look. "I—well, let me think. I had a lovely tea-set, made in England. I had china dolls, and rag-dolls, and fashion dolls. I had—"

"No, no," said Solo. "No, not what did you _have_. What did you _play_ at? Your dolls—did they have names? Did you have tea-parties with them?"

"I—of course not," said Clarisse, looking even more concerned. "They were far too expensive for being around tea. They sat on a shelf over my bed, and I—I suppose I must have slept with the rag-dolls, but I was only a little girl, and of course I don't remember that silliness. Are you feeling quite well?"

Nothing. She had not played at anything; she didn't possess a shred of imagination. It was not her fault, probably; it had been wiped clean of her. And his children, _his_ children would be prodded and poked and shaped into rigid forms, entirely opposite to the natural state of children. No. He could not. He would not put such a fate upon his own offspring: to be slapped into shape and paraded about until they were married off to the rich of society who came calling— _damn_ society, damn it all to hell. He would not sell his daughter to the highest bidder. He would not foist his son off under the pretense of honor. What good was a family name, if the children who carried it had no happiness?

"No reason," said Solo, feeling oddly light, as if made of air. "None at all. I—I do not feel well. You will have to excuse me, ladies." He stood too quickly, and nearly knocked the table over.

"Why, Ben, whatever is—" Lady Solo looked shocked. "You've gone quite white."

"I am ill—I will not be at dinner," he managed, steadying himself on the table. "Good evening."

Without another word, he stumbled away from the table, and as soon as he had made it out to the promenade, he took off running, running like he had never run before. He did not care that people were watching in shock and astonishment, or that he had forgotten his hat—he had air in his lungs, wind under his arms, and the blood was pumping in his veins. Something was flying in the wind with reckless abandon just as he was. Something had broken free at last.

* * *

Solo came upon her at the bow, sitting all alone on the bench. Nobody else was about, as it was growing chilly, and she huddled in her coat, looking at the sunset. It was truly a beautiful sunset: orange and rose and lavender, streaked in the colors of fire, but he barely saw it: he had eyes only for her.

"Miss Nowak," he said, and she jumped up, startled. He saw that she had been crying, his handkerchief still clutched in her fingers: very soiled by now indeed.

"Oh," she said dully, "you must have come for your handkerchief," and she held it out to him, the wind whipping her skirts about her legs, the piece of fine cotton blowing to and fro.

Solo came closer, and put his hand over the one holding the kerchief, and lowered it, stepping closer as he did so. "No, I came for something else far more precious, that I left behind, and to apologize, because I am—I am a fool," he said. Her upturned face glowed like gold in the light of the setting sun, and the scent of lilacs, sharp and sweet, drifted around her in the wind. "That is, if it is… not unwelcome."

"No," she breathed, looking at him with astonishment, "no, it is not unwelcome at all, you are very welcome—"

He kissed her. He had never kissed a woman on the mouth before, and had always thought of the idea as distasteful. It was anything but distasteful. Miss Nowak's mouth was warm, her lips wind-chapped, and her mouth moved beneath his almost unconsciously, her small hands gripping his waist.

She broke away first, panting slightly as the bugle blew behind them distantly to signal for the first-class dinner. Her brow pressed to his. "But I thought—"

"No," he said, shaking his head against hers, "no, no. I cannot do it. I will not do it. I will not have my children raised to have their lives controlled, to be china dolls, to be—Miss Nowak, please, tell me what you played at when you were a child, won't you?"

She pulled her head back a little and smiled up at him, looking bewildered, but happy. "Why, I had a doll I made out of scraps of cloth and sticks, and I called her Marianne. We did everything together. We went to China to see the junks, and to Africa to see the elephants, and to the Far-Away Orient to visit a Sultan and be a rug-merchant. She married a fine ruler my mother owned. They had three children: an old handkerchief named Maurice, a rusty nail, and a moldy piece of bread—well, a pigeon ate Claude—that was the bread—but then the ruler, whose name was Reginald, carried on a most illicit affair with a blue silk ribbon, Cossette, and Marianne was so stricken with grief that she flung herself from my bedpost into the river—that was my rag-rug, all braided."

"But what was the nail's name?" Solo asked, charmed.

"Nail, of course," said Miss Nowak, and laughed, her head tilting back. Solo grinned widely and echoed her laugh, then pulled her close again and kissed her on the forehead.

"I must be going mad," he confided to her, looking down. "This morning I was firm in my promise not to see you ever again, and just now I fled from table in the lounge telling my mother and Clarisse that I was ill and would not go to dinner, and I have resolved to call off the engagement after all—I must be a fool."

"Or the wisest man on earth," said Miss Nowak. "For fools think they are wise, and the wise man thinks he is foolish."

Solo laughed again. "I don't suppose you should like to see the stateroom? They have all gone to dinner by now, and I would like your opinion on the decorations."

Miss Nowak drew herself up, affecting great offense. "Why, how improper, my lord: surely you shouldn't entertain a young lady alone!"

"You won't be alone, you'll be with me," he said, smiling.

"Oh, in that case, very well, show me to it!" Miss Nowak tucked her hand into his arm, and they went back together, beaming all the way.

* * *

By great good luck, they met nobody in the corridor, and Solo ushered her into their room, calling out at first for the maids, or Hux. Finding the place deserted (after all, Hux was likely at dinner in second-class, and the maids all off to their dinners as well) he locked the door behind him and turned around to see the expression on Miss Nowak's face.

"Oh…oh _my_ ," she said faintly, gazing at the room.

Solo looked at the walls, with their fine wood paneling, and their electric light fixtures, and the expensive carpet underfoot: the table and chairs, the armchairs, the chaise lounge, the coffee-table and the fireplace and the writing-desk and the curtains. He suddenly felt very wasteful. "It is a horror of opulence," he said, "isn't it?"

"It's…" Miss Nowak removed her hat and took a timid step, as if afraid that her shoe would dirty the rug. "Why, it's the grandest room I have ever seen."

"Is it?" Solo surveyed the place.

"But there is no place to sleep at all, where are the berths?" Miss Nowak craned her head from side to side.

"Oh, there are two bedrooms," said Solo quickly, and crossed the room, opening the door to his mother and Clarisse's room. "This is where Mother and Miss Harkness sleep."

Miss Nowak poked her head in and gasped, her eyes as round and large as saucers. "A _separate_ room! And there are _two_?" She took it all in: the two beds, the trunks, the clothing Clarisse had left carelessly strewn on the back of the chairs.

"Two bedrooms, a private bathroom, two wardrobe rooms, and our private verandah," said Solo, grinning. He felt very much like a child proudly showing off a new toy. "Here—see, this is mine." She followed him eagerly to the door leading off the bedroom, through the bathroom, and popped her head into his room: a warm, snug cabin, a bed in the corner all made fresh with linens and pillows, a table, chairs, a sofa, a dressing-table with its stool, and a curtained window.

"It's almost too fine to imagine," she whispered reverently, as if she was in church. "You couldn't possibly sleep here, could you? I should be afraid of breaking everything."

Solo laughed. "It's all well enough if it's what one's used to, I suppose. We ought to switch places, and have you act the fine lady in first class, while I make my way about steerage and pretend to be a—"

A key rattled in the lock of Mother and Clarisse's bedroom, and Solo did not even think: he acted purely on instinct, and yanked Miss Nowak into the room by her elbow, shutting the door very quietly behind him and covering her mouth with one hand. "Don't breathe a word," he whispered. "Hide!"

She nodded quickly and cast about, looking for a place. Settling on under the bed, she crawled beneath the bedskirt with surprising speed and agility, disappearing at once, while Solo sat on the bed and removed his shoes, his collar, and his tie.

The hallway door to the other bedroom creaked open, and he heard, "Ben? Are you here?"

Thank God, it was only Mother. "Mother," he managed, flinging his collar to the foot of his bed. "Come in."

Lady Solo, dressed for dinner, opened his bathroom door and tut-tutted, seeing him on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "Sea-sick, is it? I expected it might come on you earlier."

"No, no, I am not sea-sick," he said, peering up at her with one eye. "I—it is a dreadful headache, and I think I might just sit in the dark for a bit. I am very sorry I could not accompany you to dinner."

"Think nothing of it: Mr. Ismay has gallantly offered to escort us in your absence, and is waiting at the end of the hall with Miss Harkness. I thought I might come back to see if you were here." Lady Solo felt his cheek with her cool, ungloved hand. "My, you are flushed: burning up. I hope you have not caught something dreadful from steerage."

There was, thank God, no indignant noise from beneath the mattress. "Well, if I have, then the better to leave me be in quarantine," he said, and half-smiled. "Tell Clarisse I am very sorry."

"I shall. Don't expect us back soon; we shall be in the lounge until very late. Clarisse has finally settled on flowers for the wedding—hyacinths—and I have no doubt that she will want to tell everyone all about them until one in the morning." Lady Solo shook her head, looking amused. "I have let Hux go for the night, as well, and the maids: it is Sunday, after all. Good evening, and get some rest."

"I shall, Mama. Goodnight." Solo put his head back in his hands as she left the room and flipped off the light-switch, leaving him illuminated only by the night-table lamp, and as soon as he heard the door shut behind him, he got off the bed, kneeling by the bedskirt, and lifted it up.

Miss Nowak slid out on her back from the darkness, quite covered in dust, and looked up at him, fighting a laugh. She had dust across her nose, dust on her chin, and dust in her hair. A chimney-sweep would have been cleaner.

"What news from the underworld, Persephone?" he inquired in a low and sonorous tone.

She burst into laughter and sat up. "Your maids ought to be ashamed," she told him, accepting a hand as they got to their feet. "Oh, my good Sunday dress—there is no hope for it at all." She brushed ineffectually at her skirt.

Solo could not help but notice that the soft light from the lamp cast her sharp features into shadow: her cheekbones graven like stone and her nose high and fine. "You look very lovely," he said, and meant it, handing her a handkerchief.

Miss Nowak blushed and wrinkled her nose at him as she wiped at her face. "Oh, to be sure: for you are greatly aged, sir, and your eyes must be failing, after all."

"Indeed," he said, pretending to have the quavering voice of an old man as he squinted and peered at her, "indeed, young miss, spare alms for the poor affected old man you see before you!"

She snorted. It was a very unladylike noise, and he liked it. "I suppose I should go. The underworld is calling, after all, and I must leave the fine world above."

"Ah, have you a husband in the underworld, then?" Solo asked, raising an eyebrow and looking very serious.

"You know I do not," Miss Nowak said, pressing her wrist to her head dramatically. "Alas! Hades has gone after the way of Zeus, and left me for a good clean maid who bathes."

"I have just thought of something—" Solo said quickly, and turned, rummaging through the books on the table-top for his folio. "You had said that _La Circassienne_ was drawn all wrong, remember?"

"Very well," said Miss Nowak, peeping over his arm as he opened it. "Why—the studies you have made are very fine."

"Yes, but they are all wrong too, as I had no real body to use as a model. I—would—" He went quite scarlet. "I don't suppose you would allow me—permit me to—"

"To—to stand as a model?" she asked, pink in the nose.

Solo nearly fell over himself. "Of course you would not have to do it, if you did not want to. I only thought perhaps I should make something—something truly real, without any ideals at play, you see."

"Oh, I have modeled before," she assured him quickly. "The artists in Paris would often pay a franc to draw the dancers from life for a few hours, but I have never…stood nude, you know, I was always in my dancing-shoes and costumes when they drew us." She peeped up through her eyelashes. "I don't suppose you would be able to draw your study if I was not—unclothed, as you do not—you have not seen a—a woman."

"I—you have the right of it, I think," he said, barely able to breathe. "I swear on my honor I shall not—I shall be quite respectful, and not make improper advances."

"Well," said Miss Nowak, squaring her shoulders as if setting off to battle, "in that case, then—then yes, I shall stand for your drawing, and be your _Circassienne,_ my lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So if I'm being absolutely honest the bit where Rey is talking about how she played as a kid is probably my favorite thing I've ever written, ever.  
> -There were two private promenade suites on B deck. One was occupied by J. Bruce Ismay and the other was occupied by Thomas and Charlotte Cardenza. I've put the Solos in the Cardenza's rooms, and I think James Cameron did the same thing for the film. Also the deck plans and room layouts can be seen HERE: https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-deckplans/b-deck.html


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She swallowed and opened the door, clutching the dressing-gown tightly to her as she walked to the spot he had chosen. His eyes were on her like two coals, burning into her body, and she was all too aware that only a thin layer of lace and silk was between them. He could likely already see something of her form, especially as she passed in front of the fireplace: his eyes widened a little and he shifted his folio slightly.
> 
> "Just here?" she asked, coming to a halt.
> 
> "Yes, that will do," Lord Solo said, and waited for her to take off the robe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Which We Earn Our E Rating At Last, Dear Readers.

It was a quarter to nine. Miss Rachel Maria Nowak sat, having freshly scrubbed herself from head to toe in a bath of hot water, in another woman's lacy dressing-gown, smelling of soft jasmine, and looked at herself in the mirror.

Lord Solo had locked all the stateroom doors to the corridor to ensure they would not be disturbed, and she could hear him carefully sharpening his pencils in the sitting room. He had moved some furniture about, and a lamp or two, and now he was quiet, waiting—waiting for her to emerge, like a doe from the forest. All her dirty clothing had been laid out on his dressing-chair, and they had laughed about it, passing articles through the bathroom door as she had hid herself from his sight, as if it was a joke. Neither of them were laughing now. She had washed all her hair, and it hung drying in long dark locks about her shoulders. She had not thought to pin it back up, and she was far too nervous to ask him if it should be up or down now.

Her _mam_ _an_ had been strictly Catholic: Rachel remembered solemn Masses and recitations of the Ave Maria very well. She had behaved properly and said her prayers and worked hard, and that was enough for her. Rachel had never thought badly of her fellow dancers for their coquettishness, or their various passions—that was their own business, of course, and if they went to the theatres and entertained wealthy men in other ways for a few francs, why, God knew everyone needed to eat. No, her pride alone had always kept her from taking money for anything she felt she had not earned it for. It felt like stealing, to her, and she would never, ever stoop so low as to steal. A memory wavered in her mind: Maman coming home to their poor garret in tears, because a man had stolen the bread she had bought, right out of the basket in her arms, and they had been hungry for a week because of it. She had resolved then, at age six, to never steal, for stealing hurt another, and was surely a dreadful sin.

But what if, she mused, sitting and looking at herself in the mirror, combing all her long hair, what if the man who had stolen the bread had been hungrier than they? What if he had had little children, or a wife, and they had not eaten bread in months?—surely it was not a sin to feed one's family at any cost. Perhaps God in High Heaven would not judge someone too harshly for sinning, should they have been in greater need.

It was also not immodest, she thought to herself, to stand before another person without any clothes, so that they could make lovely art: had not God made man and woman, in perfect form to be admired? Were Adam and Eve not naked in the Garden? Truly, she was doing Lord Solo a favor: he should not be startled by the true body of a woman on his wedding-night—whoever it might be to, now that he was resolved to call off the engagement to Miss Harkness—and it did not matter that her belly was tight and half-afraid, or that her hands would not stop trembling, or that she wanted very much to kiss him on the mouth again. No, it was a favor and that was all: if he wished to kiss her again he would have done it already.

Quickly, Rachel braided all her long hair into a thick plait, and wrapped it about her head, evoking the style of the painting: she did not wish for the fall of hair to obscure any of the lines of her body. Pinning it in place, she looked at herself again in the glass, then stood, her hands clutching the lacy robe tight, and hastily went to the door on light feet.

She opened the door, peering round it with one eye. Lord Solo was sitting casually, one ankle on his knee, his folio on the table in front of him to a blank sheet. His jacket and waistcoat lay across the back of another chair, he was in only his shirt, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing a pair of corded, pale forearms that knotted with hard muscle as he used the knife to sharpen his charcoals. A dark lock of hair had come free from the slickly-done style, and dangled above his eyes. She wanted very much, not for the first time, to run her hands through it; to see if it was as thick and soft as it looked.

"Sir," she said softly, and his eyes flashed up quickly, taking in the sliver of her face that was visible. "Are you—are you ready?"

"Yes, come into the light," he said after a moment, and indicated the floor before him. "Just there, to the left of the mantle."

She swallowed and opened the door, clutching the dressing-gown tightly to her as she walked to the spot he had chosen. His eyes were on her like two coals, burning into her body, and she was all too aware that only a thin layer of lace and silk was between them. He could likely already see something of her form, especially as she passed in front of the fireplace: his eyes widened a little and he shifted his folio slightly.

"Just here?" she asked, coming to a halt.

"Yes, that will do," Lord Solo said, and waited for her to take off the robe.

 _It is not me, of course_ , she thought as she tilted her chin slightly up. _It is not me, Rachel Maria, it is Rey Nowak, the famous and avant-garde ballerina, who poses nude for fine artists._ She took a small breath and undid the ribbon that held the lacy thing together, then slid it off her shoulders without further ado, draping it over her arm. "Ah—where should I—?" she asked, lifting it.

Lord Solo looked as if someone had beaten him with a blunt object. "Just—just there, on the chair," he said, his eyes fastened to her chest as he pointed with his left hand. He seemed to tear his eyes away with an effort, meeting her gaze. Rey flushed and set the robe down, then turned back. She felt marvelously warm, though whether that was due to the fire in the grate or the excitement of doing this scandalous thing she did not know. "And you—you might turn round for me: I want to see the extent of your muscular structure," he added, leaning forward slightly.

Rey nodded and slowly revolved, standing at front, and three-quarter, and back, and the same again, until she was facing him.

The initial shock seemingly had worn off. Lord Solo had regained his professional expression. "Yes, now—" he glanced at his sketches, lying on the table beside him, "bend your left leg up—I have set a box, there—" Rey lifted her leg, letting her toes rest on the cigar box and balancing carefully. "Your foot; rotate it—yes, so, and turn your head to the side, there—right, and your right arm extended, but bent, left hand in the front, between your breasts, and tilt your chin down a little. A little more. Yes, perfect."

She peeked at him from the corner of her eyes. He looked intensely at his work, his eyes flickering from her to the paper as he made several long, quick strokes with the pencil. "Don't look at me, look down," he said quickly, a half-smile on his face. "I shall be done with your upper body in no time at all."

Rey did not know how long she stood there, looking modestly at the beautiful carpet as Lord Solo's pencil-sketching filled the room. She was dreadfully afraid someone might come knocking at any moment, but nobody did, and she began to relax a little, listening to the crackling fire and to the soft _scratch-scratch_ of the pencils and charcoal.

* * *

Solo had not expected—well, he was not sure what he had expected. Miss Nowak had peeped her head round the door like a child frightened of the dark, then strode into the sitting room in Clarisse's robe, looking quite determined. A little moment had passed during which he had been frightfully sure she would run back into the bedroom in terror, but instead she had lifted her chin a little and untied the lace robe, slipping it off and folding it over her arm.

He had registered only a smooth expanse of flesh, and inwardly panicked, focusing on her breasts with an intensity that embarrassed him as he indicated the chair. His trousers had grown a bit tight, he had shifted his position to alleviate some of the pressure, and had inwardly shouted _get hold of yourself, man!_ before asking her politely to turn, so that he might see the muscles of her body better.

Her body—her body. He was sure Rubens would have deemed her too thin, Titian would have called her plain; but he had never seen anything so marvelous in all his life. Her legs were slender, well-muscled and lean. Her hips were narrow, but curved up pleasantly to a slim waist. Her middle was flat, the lines of her abdomen clear—and he noted with amusement that she was right, Blondel had painted the navel of _La Circassienne_ too low. Below her navel…here, Solo swallowed. Whatever lay between her legs was hidden by a small, silken pelt of dark hair, same as the stuff beneath her arms, and he was half-grateful for the covering given by Nature; he was not sure he would have been able to stand it if she had been entirely exposed. Miss Nowak's breasts were small, but finely formed, with petite rosy nipples the exact color of her mouth. As she turned, he saw how they sat on her ribcage, and noted with an artist's interest that one was very slightly larger than the other. Her back and shoulders were thin, but lean with muscle, twin dimples showing at the small of her back, and her backside was rounded from exercise, forming a fine pair of pert curves at the top of her thighs. She turned to face him again, and he instructed her on positioning, looking at his notes for reference: then began to draw her, outlining the gesture with a few quick strokes, then filling her figure in from top to bottom.

The room was very quiet. She was looking at him out of the corner of her eye: he caught her at it when he was trying to draw her face. He wondered if she was concerned with her appearance, or how he thought of her. It made no difference, he would draw exactly what he saw, having not been given the gift of flattery in art or otherwise.

At last, he was done with her upper body, and gave her permission to relax, as long as she kept her legs in position. Miss Nowak lowered her arms with a sigh, and turned to look at him. She tucked her hands up by her neck, letting her elbows cover her breasts, and shivered. "Is this all right?" she asked.

Lord Solo glanced up. "Oh—yes, yes, it's fine," he said, making sure her leg position had not changed. He caught a glimpse of a soft curve: a breast pressed against her body by an arm, and fought to look away. "Fine," he repeated, throat feeling dry, and looked back down, continuing to shade the lines of her thighs, the curve of her knee.

* * *

Rey stood very still until he sat back, looked over his work critically, looked at her, looked at the other sketches, and said, "I think—I think I'm done, come look."

She nearly forgot herself and rushed over without a robe, but remembered it quickly, snatched it off the chair, and held it in front of her, coming round the chair-back and looking over his shoulder.

There stood a slender, lithe young woman on his paper: the lines of her fingers and arms marked in exquisite detail. She had a half-mysterious smile on her face as she looked down at the floor, and her body seemed caught in motion. "Why, it is marvelous," Miss Nowak said, surprised. "You have captured me perfectly."

"Have I? Good." Lord Solo smiled and signed the bottom.

"I thought you did not flatter your subjects," she accused, turning her back quickly and putting the robe back on, "yet you have made me look as beautiful as an angel."

"Well, that is what I see," he said plainly, and she looked up, their gazes meeting in the mirror over the fireplace.

Rey turned back very slowly, first her head and then her whole body following, swathed in lace and silk. "You truly think me beautiful, then?" she ventured.

"I think you—" Solo's words caught in his throat. He shut the folio and set it aside, standing up. "I think you the loveliest creature on God's earth, Miss Nowak." She did not back away as he drew nearer, but stood her ground and looked up at him as he came to stand only inches from her, very near, very close, very warm. "I know I am not a handsome man—I know I comported myself loosely last night, and I never meant to cause you any distress. It has been the furthest thing from my mind in all of this, and was the chief reason I was so distraught this morning. You told me than that you loved me, but I fear that was only a kind word said to a man in dire straits, to give him hope; so I will keep that little study I have done, and treasure it forever, and remember you with great fondness."

Miss Nowak's lips parted in astonishment. "I—it was _not_ only a kind word," she managed to say. "Why—why, I said it because I meant it, and I am too forward for my own good, I see—oh, dear, now you are shocked!" For Solo had gone pale at her words, his body tightening up in surprise. "I am very sorry, sir, I should not have said it—I will dress and go—"

"No," Solo said quickly, and caught her by the wrist as she turned. " _No_ , don't go, I love you!"

Miss Nowak stared at him with enormous shocked eyes, and he realized that her eyes were not brown after all, but a lovely bright hazel. "You—you—"

"Please," he said, and let go of her wrist, stumbling away and sinking back into his chair. His lips trembled with emotion, and he did not know what he was begging for, only that he must do it or die. "Please."

Miss Nowak stepped closer, until she was standing at his knee, and reached down with a slow and cautious movement, her hand touching his brow gently, directly on the beauty-mark above his left eye. He shut his eyes as she marked each one with her fingertips—left cheek, by his nose, right side of the nose, his right cheekbone, left cheekbone, above his mouth—traced the lines of his lips deftly with her thumb, and finally pressed her hand to his jaw. "I…I should not be so forward, but…" she said softly. Her thumb caressed his cheek. "You are very… warm, and rough, and smooth all at once. Like velvet."

Solo covered her hand with his, turned his face into her palm, and kissed it. She smelled like a confusion of perfumes: lilac and jasmine, and he fought a dreadful impulse to rip the robe off her, to wash every vestige of Clarisse off her at once. Her hand was half the size of his face. "You are very… small," he said, his eyes still shut. He was afraid to open them, afraid the spell would be broken if he did.

"I—I should like—" she said very shyly, pulling her hand out of his, and he opened his eyes, looking up at her. She was reaching for her hair, the plait twined around her head, and as he watched she took out the pins, and the plait fell over her shoulder, falling to below her breast. "I want you to touch it, please."

Solo stood immediately and reached for her face, stroking an errant lock behind her ear and tracing the shining braid all the way to its end, just by the ribbon that held the dressing-gown shut. She gave a soft shiver as his fingers touched it: the thought of untying it burning in both their minds—time for that later: he would not impose himself. Solo raised his hand again, and teased the locks out, finger-combing the soft, shining river until all her hair spread over her shoulders, smooth and soft and clean, all the way down to her waist. His hand traveled down again to the ribbon, and he brushed his fingers against it, glancing up at Miss Nowak for a sign, whether it was yea or nay. "May I?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she whispered, "yes, please," and her fingers came up to guide his; together they undid the tied bow and the robe fell open. He reached up and pushed it off her shoulders lightly, the whole thing falling to the floor, and there she was again, naked and warm and glowing in the firelight. He had thought her frozen pose erotic, simply because she was nude—he now saw he had been mistaken. That was nothing now compared to the softness of her form, her eyes as they looked up at him.

She put her hands on his shoulders and rose up on her toes to kiss him, and he knew nothing else for a moment: only the heat of her body soaking through his clothing, her hair tangling in his hands as he groped in vain for somewhere to touch her that would not be an outrage (he settled on her head), his body rousing to the touch and the heat insistently. "God," he gasped, breaking away for a moment. "Damn propriety, damn it all, _damn_ it—" His hands scrambled down and he lifted her up in his arms, and he made for the bedroom, Miss Nowak squeaking and clinging to him, but refusing to stop kissing him.

Solo made it inside. He kicked open the bathroom door, nearly slipped, slammed open the second door—at last, his room!—kicked the door shut, knocked over a chair, and half-fell with her on the bed. Her hands were scrabbling at his buttons, nimbly unbuttoning them, and he kept his mouth fast on hers while he shrugged out of it, then his under-shirt. If she wanted to take off his clothes, then by God, he would let her strip him naked as a bird, and not utter a word of complaint.

Miss Nowak drew back suddenly, and Solo stopped, worrying he had frightened her, but she kept her eyes fixed on his bare chest. "Oh," she whispered, reaching out to touch his breast. "You were right, you did not flatter yourself—"

Her hand felt like a firebrand, tracing the deeply incised lines of his shoulders, his chest, his belly. Solo could barely stand it. "This scar," she said softly, her fingers tracking it from its source at his right collarbone and its end, below his breast. "Where did you get it?"

"A fencing accident," he said quietly, in an effort to control his voice. "A year or so past."

Miss Nowak sat up, her breasts half-obscured by the fall of her hair, and ran her warm fingers over the round muscle of his shoulders. "You are very strong. I must ask you to be careful not to break me," she said lightly, but he sensed some apprehension behind her words. He took her hand and drew himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed in his trousers and nothing else.

"You have my word that I will not," he said firmly.

Her eyes traveled down to his waistband, and she looked away quickly. "You must take those off," she teased, looking up at him shyly through her eyelashes, "for we cannot be only one of us naked."

Solo laughed a little and undid the buttons, pulling off his trousers and then his drawers, leaving one hand to shield him from her view. "You have—have you ever seen—?"

"Yes," she said firmly, red as a beet. "I have." Solo moved his hand, and her eyes popped open wide, a hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, not in _that_ state! No, I take it back!"

He laughed at her consternation, but the laughter died as she leaned back and parted her thighs, showing him what lay there. "Now we are quite even on the score," she said, her chin pointed at him in a challenge.

Soft pink folds, like a budding flower, lay under the curls of dark hair. He had never seen anything so fascinating. "Might I touch you?" he inquired, his hand already creeping across the bed-cover.

"Ye-es," she said haltingly, and shut her eyes as his fingers traced her, top to bottom and back again. He marveled at how she warmed and wetted under his hand, opening to him. "There is—" She pressed her lips together and made a little noise as he pressed a bit harder. "There's a place at the top, and I know already that to touch it gives great pleasure of feeling—"

Lord Solo did not need to be told twice. His fingers moved up, pressing lightly into the soft curls, and he came upon a curious little thing there, a small nub of flesh, and when he rubbed his fingers across it, Miss Nowak _moaned_ , her legs trembling. "Great pleasure of feeling," he said to himself in amazement, repeating the movement and watching her gasp.

* * *

Rey had never imagined anything so filthy could be so lovely: here Lord Solo was, naked as the day he was born, his hand between her legs and rubbing at her most secret parts and she was quivering like a newborn foal under his ministrations. _It must be a dream_ , she thought, gasping for air as he pressed his fingers against her, _I must be imagining it all_. But she knew she was not: his body was close and huge, the bed soft and warm.

The glimpse of his cockstand had been rather a shock: he was a large man in every aspect, it seemed, and she worried that she would not be able to fit him at all, but as his fingers kept up their moving, it seemed that a wanting ache was growing between her legs, a desire to be filled. It must be natural, then, she decided, somewhere in the back of her mind that was not taken up with the sensations proceeding from his hand. It must be natural—they must couple so, no matter the reservations she held about any of it: it must happen, it must!

"Please," she managed to say, and caught at his hand. He was looking at her with great interest, and she realized there was sweat on her brow, her face hot. "I want—I want _you_ , sir." It was probably a sin, she thought distantly as she caught her breath, but she did not care, not in the slightest.

Lord Solo regarded her for a moment and swung up on the bed, his bare body gleaming like ivory. "Then you must call me _Ben_ , for I will not be called _sir_ in my own bed."

She felt quite bold. "And you must call me _Rachel,_ or _Rey_ if you so please."

"Rachel," he murmured, and cupped her face tenderly in his hand. "I do not want you to be afraid of me."

"I am not," she said, blushing, "only—only—"

Ben kissed her cheek and lay on his back, putting his hands up by his pillows in an attitude of surrender. "There; now you may make as free of me as you wish. I shall not move, on my word as a gentleman."

Rey reached for his broad chest and dragged her hands down it, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat, his warm flesh. Further down, his waist, and his hips: she boldly ran her fingers through the rough black curls between his legs, but did not touch his cock: there was time enough for that later, though it bobbed up and down as her hands passed, and she fought a grin as Ben blushed. His thighs: fine and powerfully made, his calves long and slim, his feet large and bony. He tended to slenderness, she could see that well enough, but the solid muscle he had built would keep it at bay for a time.

Her hands went back up his arms, over his shoulders, up his throat, to his cheeks, and finally she did what she had wanted to do when she had seen him in his seat, and buried her fingers in his hair. It was soft, and dark as charcoal, and very thick: as fine as mink, she thought, as she worked her fingers through it. When she was satisfied with the mess she had made of his hair, she went back down to inspect that part of him that had struck the most trepidation into her.

It stood up from his body at something of an angle, pointing up toward the juncture of ceiling and wall. It seemed to be ivory-colored, like the rest of him, but at the half-way mark and up to the tip, it was flushed quite reddish-pink, the color precisely of the man's bitten lips. No, she thought, as she inspected it closely, no, it was quite a pretty thing, not ugly or frightening at all. Rey held her hand up beside the object in question to measure: it seemed only a bit longer than the span of her hand from wrist to the tip of her middle finger.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Ben, looking up with amusement from the pillows.

"Making free of you," she answered, winking mischievously, and wrapped her hand carefully about the organ. He felt warm, and quite firm. Her fingers did not close at all; perhaps if she moved her hand closer to the end? She slid her hand up, then back down when it became clear her fingers would not touch at any point. How very interesting: the skin moved over the firmness within, like a silk sheath over a steel rod—

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Ben gasped, and she looked up to see him flushed, trembling against the bed. "Rachel— _Rey_ , don't stop—"

She let go anyway and threw her leg over his waist, his large hands finding her thighs. "You must be patient," she chided, one hand between her legs, opening herself to make it easier. Her belly was tight with anticipation, but she felt quite sure that she could take him without pain. "These things take—time—ah—"

"I need—" Ben shuddered as her slick fingers touched him and brought him to the proper place. "God, _God_ , I cannot stand it, I cannot—"

"Shh," said Rey, panting slightly, and lowered herself, very carefully, onto him. At first she felt as if perhaps he would not fit after all, but after a little movement and a bit more rubbing she felt herself open to him, and then she got the first part of him wedged inside her, and began the process of seating herself fully. He felt massive, opening her to sensations she had never dreamed possible as she dropped down slowly, gasping slightly as she inched down bit by bit.

Ben jerked his hips upward in a half-movement to thrust up, but ended it with a strangled cry as she pushed him down. " _Rey_ —"

She shook her head, trying to speak. "You promised to let me make free, you must— _oh_ —you must be still—"

Ben appeared to be choking, his face gone scarlet and his hands shaking on Rey's thighs. He let out a desperate little noise as she sank down a little more, and a little more. Her thighs tingled, sparks of indescribable feeling shooting from her belly to her knees. "Breathe," she told him softly, trying to remember to do so herself. He felt as if he was going to spear her right through to her heart: tear her open from within, and she wanted nothing more or less at all.

At last, he was all the way inside, and Rey placed her hands on his chest, trembling. The first thing was done; now, she knew, came something else. "Now—now, Ben," she panted, "you must make free of _me_."

He surged up from his bed and drove into her savagely, a cry tearing from his throat, and Rey answered it with a cry of her own, throwing her arms about his neck as he rolled her over into the sheets and held her there, his hips working furiously against hers. He was half-crushing her, and she did not care a bit so long as he kept moving: Oh God, let him keep moving for ever and ever. Her hair was tangled in his hand, the one that was under her head, and she did yelp a bit in protest at that. "Pulling—my hair! Ben—!"

"Ah," he said, half-strangled, and quickly untangled his hand, sweeping the whole mass of her hair off behind her, spread out on the pillows. "Sorry—Rey—" His hips faltered in their movements, and she kicked at him impatiently. What was he doing? He must continue; her whole body cried out for him to keep on.

"No, keep going," she demanded, and he obeyed, bending his head down to lave kisses along her neck, her jaw. "Oh, oh, Ben…"

"My beautiful…" Ben was rapidly losing the ability to speak coherently, his arms trembling. "My—my— _God_ , Rey, sweet, please, sweetheart, _please_ —"

She found her way to his hair again, and buried her fingers in it, stroking gently. "Yes," she repeated, "yes, yes, Ben, it's all right."

* * *

 

Solo had never experienced anything like this in his life. Rachel—Rey—had swept her hands across his body and looked at him all over, giving him the distinct feeling that he was a stallion being curry-combed and inspected before a show, and before he knew it she had been straddling him, _mounting_ him, for God's sake, and then she had put him inside her, and he had thought he was going to die.

The sensation was indescribable. How could one describe the initial _entering_ at all? She was soft, plush and smoothly wet and hot around him; slowly engulfing him, taking him wholly. He had thought nothing, nothing would be better than this: to stay there, locked in their coupling, while she panted lightly and got herself adjusted to his presence, and then she had sighed and said _now you must make free of me_ , and something had cracked itself open from within his breast, and he had rolled her over into the bed-clothes and began to rut into her like an animal.

The movements were instinctive: Ben did not know how he knew that he must thrust to and fro, he simply _did_ , and felt his body responding, some deep and sweet pleasure flooding his entire being. He became dimly aware that Rey was saying he was pulling her hair. He quickly disentangled himself and swept her locks away, faltering in his movements—was he hurting her? Had she said anything else? He did not know.

She had ordered him to keep going; kicked him like one might kick an errant horse, and he had done as she commanded. He would have done anything she wanted, anything at all. Kick him, hit him, tear his hair out: any of it he would have gladly let her do, so long as she would allow him this. He kissed her throat, her neck, anything within reach of his mouth.

Something was building deep within him, something powerful and strange he chased that pulled his body taut like a violin string. Solo faintly remembered that an end must come to this, whether he willed it nor no, and began to gasp out words, words he could not remember saying, words that came out fragmented and broken.

Rey was saying it was all right, somewhere under him, her hands in his hair. Yes, then it must be all right, and everything safe.

Ben cried out hoarsely, one hand gripping the head-board of the bed. There was a mighty crack, but he barely heard it over the rushing of blood in his ears. Everything in him gathered into one singular point of climax, and he released, shaking like a leaf in the wind, hoarsely crying out, clumsily moving against Rey as his strength left him and he collapsed beside her, gasping for air as if he had run a mile. He was not aware of anything much for a time. His arm was flung across Rey's waist, his head nestled into her warm side. She was stroking his shoulder gently. The only sound was their breathing. It was all right: everything was safe.

* * *

"I suppose we cannot lie here forever," said Rey softly after a while. The madness that had come upon her, the joys of being taken and taking, had passed, and now she only felt very sleepy and small, lying in Lord Solo's fine bed naked.

He groaned and heaved himself up. "No, you are right. We cannot. Are you—you are not hurt, are you?" His eyes traveled across her, an expression of concern on his face.

"No, I am not hurt," she said, smiling as she sat up. "Only—only sore, as if I had leapt upon a horse and galloped all day."

Ben leaned against the wall. "Ah. Well, your mount sends his regards, and hopes you enjoyed the ride."

Rey blushed. "Why, then tell him I enjoyed it very much indeed, and would enjoy another, should the opportunity present itself."

"Another, hmm?" He gave her a lopsided grin. "Nobody told me young ladies could enjoy the act."

"Why, young ladies enjoy all sorts of things," said Rey, feeling very naughty and mischievous. "How on earth do you think I knew where you should touch me?"

"You mean to say…" Ben blinked at her in astonishment. "I did not know women could engage in the practice."

"Watch very carefully," Rey said, opening her legs and leaning back, "for you shall be given a demonstration—of an entirely practical sort—" and her fingers pressed down on her tender flesh. She let out a soft sound, but pressed on, and Ben watched in astonishment as her fingers drew up, then down, rubbing in small circles, back and forth, and her breath came faster and a flush grew on her cheeks, her breast, her throat.

"You mean you are going to…?" he said, stroking her lean thigh. "Show me." His own flesh was inert and soft, but his interest was no less piqued.  Rey caught her lower lip between her teeth and made a few soft noises, then bared her teeth like a small brown cat and shuddered out her climax—for there was no mistaking that for what it was—with her hands pressed between her legs and her thighs clamped together, falling heavily to her side and panting.

"Like that," she said, when she had caught her breath, and sat up, flushed. "You see. We are perhaps more like than not."

"And now you are satisfied entirely," Ben said, shaking his head in astonishment. It was all so clear to him now: of course fine society ladies were brought up to never think of the act at all, or sex itself as a pleasurable activity—only for children—therefore men were free to take mistresses, who knew very well the joys of it all. He thought of Madeline Astor, her young bright face, her five-months gone middle a great scandal to all in high society, because she had not shut herself up like a proper young wife. Of course, it would be: pregnancy would be only a reminder of the act that had caused it, and of that nobody wanted to be reminded, even within the bounds of a legal and perfectly proper marriage.

He thought suddenly of Rey. He could ask her for her hand—not now, of course, but properly: perhaps after they disembarked in New York and he had gently called off the engagement. He had a secret, after all, a dreadful secret, and he was sure if he wrote to the papers anonymously and revealed it, Clarisse would call off the wedding herself. Rey would not mind it. Rey would understand. He would ask her quietly, perhaps after the scandal had died down, and if she agreed, he would take her back to Skywalker House and collect his sum from Uncle Luke, and she would be Lady Solo, if she so pleased, and after Luke was gone, they would be the Duke and Duchess of Skywalker. They would fill the house with laughter again: no single child loneliness would be found in that old mansion for the next generation. Ben imagined Rey, cradling their child in her arms in the great bed that his mother had given birth to him in, saying, _come and see_.

"I want you to marry me," he said suddenly, all in a rush, and Rey went quite pale.

"Whatever can you mean?" she asked.

"I mean precisely that. I want—I wish never to be parted from you again." He stood up on still-weak legs and went for his dressing-table, rummaging through it. Rey watched him from the bed, gathering the comforter to her chest in surprise, and glanced over at the bed-post.

"Oh—I say, I think you cracked the head-board—" she began, shocked, but he came back over, holding something in his hand.

"To hell with the head-board." Ben got down on his knees and offered her the item in his hand.

Rey blinked in astonishment, and looked at him. "You cannot be in earnest, sir."

"I am. I am more in earnest than I have been in months. Please. Take it." It was a ruby ring, fashioned of silver, with a ring of diamonds set around it. The stone was fine and deep, a beautiful blood-red color, slightly larger than Rey's thumb-nail. Ben knew Rey would not care a fig for the carat, or the cut, or the weight or the grade or the cost, so he only said, "The jewel is a family heirloom. It belonged to my grandmother: it was set in a tiara, and after she died it was re-cut and set in this ring. It is meant to belong to the Duchess of Skywalker, and none other, and I want you to have both it and the title."

The young woman did not move, her face frozen in some emotion he could not ascertain. Fear? Dismay?

"Please. Rey." If she refused him, he would—he did not know what he would do. "Please."

Her hand reached out, the fine fingers trembling, and she picked it up out of his palm. "A secret engagement, then?" she asked, her eyes flickering up to his.

"Yes, I think that would be prudent. You ought to wear it about your neck, on a chain, perhaps. Do you—do you accept, then?" Ben could hardly move.

"I—oh, I must be mad," she said finally. "Yes. Yes, I accept. You—you do what you must, and I shall find you in New York, and whatever happens, you must not forget about me."

"I would sooner forget my own name," he said, and kissed her. "Come, let's get dressed. I'll see you back down to third-class safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a FEW notes:  
> -Since this chapter is 90% sex, I'm sure everyone's dying to know whether or not our Lord Solo is circumcised: in the 1880s, doctors considered the foreskin and masturbation as Disease Inducing and hawked circumcision as a Cure, but I believe by 1940 only about 40% of British boys were circumcised. I've left it entirely ambiguous for the reader to decide.  
> -Period accurate body hair for women: the one thing I shriek about angrily in every piece I watch. Upper class women were starting to shave their pits by now and that's about it.  
> -if you are a massive Star Wars nerd, you may just figure out what the ruby is supposed to be a nod to.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Solo, in his shirtsleeves and coat, made an imposing figure as he stalked down the corridors, looking for an officer. He came to the end of the hall and nearly collided with a steward, who gaped up at him. "Sir, the captain has ordered a mustering of the passengers—put on your life belt, please, and go to the Boat Deck at once."
> 
> "Life belt?" asked Solo, puzzled. The man thrust the white, bulky thing into his hands and continued down the hall, knocking on doors.

They crept from hall to hall like a pair of mice. Rey possessed a near-otherworldly sense for when someone might be near, and pushed him into cross-halls when a steward appeared, which was not very often: it was past ten-thirty in the evening, and most of the crew had retired.

They reached the stairwell leading down to third-class, and Rey took his hand. "This is where you leave me, sir," she said, looking up into his face. "I shall see you in New York."

Lord Solo wanted very much to take her again, but knew full well there was no time: his mother and Clarisse would be back any minute, and he was supposed to be in bed with a headache. "I shall count the days," he said instead, and kissed her cheek. "Good evening, Rachel."

"So shall I; good evening, Ben," she whispered, as if afraid to be so familiar, and squeezed his hands before hurrying away down the stairs and into the hall. Solo watched her go with longing, and remained there until she was gone.

* * *

Solo had just returned back to his stateroom and taken off his jacket, then finished putting everything back in order (the dressing-gown replaced, the cigar-box picked up, his folio safely put away) when a key turned in the lock, and he sat down quickly on the armchair in front of the fire in the sitting-room. The clock on the mantle showed it was nearly eleven: they had come back early.

Lady Solo and Clarisse came in. "Good evening, Ben," said Lady Solo, putting her wrap over a chair. "Your headache is better?"

"Very much, thank you, Mother," he said.

Clarisse swept into her bedroom without a word and shut the door. Lady Solo sighed at her son's quizzical expression. "She is upset because Mrs. Astor mentioned off-handedly that she had always thought hyacinths rather foreboding flowers, and now she has changed her mind all over again."

"Dear God," muttered Solo. "Just go and pick some wildflowers, for heaven's sake. They are _flowers_ , what do they matter?"

Lady Solo sat down in the other armchair and shook her head, taking off her bracelets and rings. "If she has not decided by the time we arrive in New York, I shall choose them myself."

Lord Solo found himself becoming quite apprehensive: he had not thought out the particulars of his plot to get the wedding called off at all, only decided that he would do it. Now, faced with his mother's presence, he felt his resolve weaken. "Every time I think to myself it might be bearable, she goes and does something foolish again," he said, testing the waters.

"She will grow older, and even out her temperament," said Lady Solo, setting her jewels aside. "Heaven knows it happens to the best of us. Now, where have you put Grandmother Skywalker's ring?"

His blood felt as if it gone to ice. "What?" he asked numbly.

"The ruby, Ben, the ruby ring. Gracious, as if you hadn't seen it every Christmas and dinner when I wore it on that dreadfully uncomfortable tiara, before we had it removed." Lady Solo took off her dinner gloves and set them neatly on the table.

"No, I know which one you mean: why do you want it now?" he asked.

"I mean to give it to Clarisse as a wedding-gift once we disembark. Perhaps once we have been settled in New York in her mother's house—nevertheless, I want to keep an eye on it. I have had it insured in your name, you know: for twenty thousand dollars, too."

Twenty _thousand_ dollars. Solo felt dizzy at the memory of the ruby, lying just beneath Rey's décolletage on a watch-chain: twenty thousand dollars, a kings' ransom nestled between her little breasts. "It was in my dressing-table drawer, I think," he said distantly.

"I shall go fetch it, then," said Lady Solo, and stood, bustling to the corridor.

He was too late in remembering that he had not quite tidied up the room, and leaped to his feet, following her out to the other door and down the hall to his bedroom: but she was already inside, turning on the light and revealing the broken head-board, the rumpled sheets. Her sharp eyes took it all in, every bit of it, and she turned to him, utter confusion written in every line of her face. "Mother," he said, helplessly.

"What on earth have you done to your stateroom?" she demanded, crossing to look at the cracked wood more closely. "This is fine walnut, and it has cracked like balsa."

"I had a nightmare, and I struck out in my sleep," Solo said, desperately grabbing for any excuse he could.

"I shall have a word with Mr. Andrews about the construction." Lady Solo made for the dressing-table then, and opened the drawers. Solo leaned against the bed-post and waited on tenterhooks for the other shoe to drop.

She looked and looked and looked, and turned about, her face quite white. "It is gone. _Gone._ "

There was no denying it. "Yes, it is," he said.

Lady Solo crossed the room and grabbed him by the ear, making him yelp in pain. "You had better tell me at once what on earth you have done with that ring—lost it gambling? Has that valet of yours made off with it? Tell me!"

Solo gripped her wrist and pulled her hand away. "It is gone, Mama Leia," he said softly, and her eyes went wide and shocked with horror. "It is gone, and Clarisse will never touch it, not so long as I live."

"You—you—" Lady Solo was at a loss entirely for words. "That ruby belongs to the Duchess of Skywalker—"

"Yes. And whoever she may be, Mama, she shall not be Clarisse."

Lady Solo stumbled backward and landed in his chair, white as paper. "I would rather you had lost it gambling," she said, in a voice very far away and faint, "for then I should have gone courteously to whoever had won it and pay for it to get it back. How—who has it? Have you given it to someone, and bribed them? Have you—you have _not_ gone mad and thrown it overboard—!" Her face went even whiter.

"It has not been thrown overboard, Mama," he assured her.

"You intend, then, to call off the engagement still," said Lady Solo, trembling like a leaf. "After all I have done—"

"Mama Leia, listen to me," he said urgently, and knelt down at her feet, like he used to do when he was a small boy, and saying his prayers. "Mama Leia, I cannot in good faith marry the woman you have chosen. I would rather live happily and destitute than rich and with a good name and stuck with a wife I loathe. Clarisse loathes me, too, if you cannot see it: she cares nothing for who I am, she thinks me a prize won, she wants the title and wealth and nothing else. She has no sense; she will spend all our money through misuse or through lavish parties she will nag me into throwing, she has no head for figures at all. If I wed her, I will be in more dire straits than we find ourselves now, and your work will have been for nothing."

Lady Solo had not considered this. She took a great breath and put her head in her hands. "But the engagement," she protested. "The scandal—"

"Oh, yes. There will be a scandal. It will not be because I called off the engagement," he said, a growing sense of sick dread filling him. "I have a dreadful secret, Mama: I would have taken it to my grave, but if you—if you insist on forcing my hand, I will write every paper from here to London under a false name and expose it, and we shall all be disgraced and Clarisse's mother will be forced to call it off anyway."

"A secret? What secret? What can you possibly mean?" demanded Lady Solo.

There was, he saw, no way around it. She might hate him. She might disown him, run shouting from the room—but she might listen, and understand too.

So he told her.

After Lord Solo had finished speaking, Leia was quite silent. There were tears on her cheeks, and she stood quickly, went to the window and blindly looked out of it—of course, there was nothing to see but darkness. "Does anyone else know?" she demanded.

"No," he said. "Not a soul."

She was silent again. "It is half-past eleven," she said. "I am going to bed. We will continue this conversation in the morning privately."

"Mother—"

"Just tell me one thing," she said quickly, turning to him. "One thing. The ring. Is it safe, and with someone you trust?"

"Yes, Mama Leia. It is." There were tears in his eyes, whether from grief at causing her grief or from loathing himself, he did not know.

"Good. That is good." Lady Solo made for the door. "Good night, Ben."

She shut it behind her, and Lord Solo collapsed to the floor, his head in his hands, unable to stop the flood of tears. If only he had not been forced to tell her: if only he could have saved her this grief. It was not fair, none of it was fair at all, and the blame could not rest on anyone but himself: it was not Clarisse's fault that she was a beautiful fool any more than it was Mama Leia's fault that she was trying her best to provide for him.

Exhausted from the day, Solo nodded off, tears drying on his cheeks.

* * *

"A _secret_ engagement! It's ever so romantic," Ilsa gushed, peering at the ruby.

"I know, I know, but I must not tell _anyone_ , not even you, really—but of course I had to tell you, I couldn't _not_ have." Rey beamed. "Oh, won't it be fine! I shall send for you when I am a duchess, and we will have tea and ride about in fine carriages all day."

Ilsa giggled. "We might have a—"

Their words were interrupted by a great grinding crash, a dull shudder which seemed to echo through the hull and the walls of the ship itself. Rey turned round, surprised. "Why, what on earth was that?"

"I can't imagine," said Ilsa, frowning. "It sounds as though we have been rammed."

"I will go find a steward and ask," Rey told her. "I will be back, as quick as I can."

* * *

Lord Solo jerked awake in his stateroom, startled: his body felt as if it was shuddering, vibrating, and there was a sound as if they had rolled over marbles. He got to his feet and went to the window as a matter of habit: nothing, of course, could be seen outside but blackness.

He opened the door to the hall. Spying a steward, he called out, "What was that sound, sir?"

"Don't know, m'lord," came the answer back, "stay put in your room for now."

Well, that was unsatisfying. Solo turned back around and caught sight of his mother exiting the bedroom into the hall, her hair in a long braid and her nightgown pulled close. "Ben? What was that dreadful racket? Clarisse has woken up."

"I asked a steward. He says he doesn't know and that we ought to stay put." Ben glanced up to see Clarisse, poking her head out behind his mother in her own nightgown and robe.

"Have we hit something?" she inquired, rubbing her eyes.

"I don't know," said Solo. "I—" He paused, listening.

"Well, what—"

"Shh!" he said sharply, and held a hand up to quiet Clarisse. "Can't you hear it?"

"I don't hear anything," said Lady Solo.

"Precisely. They've stopped the engines."

"But if they have stopped the engines, we shall be late getting into New York," said Clarisse plaintively.

"I am sure it's nothing," said Lady Solo. "Perhaps we have thrown a propeller."

"I am going to find someone and ask," said Lord Solo, going back inside his bedroom and flinging his coat on. "You ladies stay here unless someone comes and tells you otherwise. I'll be back soon."

* * *

Rey pushed her way through the crowds of confused, sleepy passengers, all woken by the noise, and made it up the stairs, back out to the forward deck. Several people stood there, too, and she halted in surprise at the sight: ice was scattered in large chunks across the deck. A few children were kicking it back and forth, laughing.

She wrapped her arms tightly about her. It was bitterly cold, and she had not thought to bring her coat. "Sir!" she shouted, flagging down a hurrying officer. "Sir, what has happened?"

"I can't say, miss, excuse me—" He disappeared up through the gate separating them from the upper decks, and Rey sighed. She should not have left at all: nobody knew what was going on anyway.

Bending down, she picked up some of the ice on the deck. Her fingers went chilly and numb, but she looked closely at it anyway: quite hard ice, packed solid as steel.

Had they hit an ice floe? She went to the rail and peered backwards down the starboard side, but if any great chunk of sea-ice floated in the darkness, she could not see it. Perhaps something had got stuck in the propellers?

Rey tossed the ice back into the sea. She did not know what to do, but inside was better than the freezing night air. She quickly went back down into the warmth of the ship, and made for the Hansens' compartment.

* * *

Lord Solo, in his shirtsleeves and coat, made an imposing figure as he stalked down the corridors, looking for an officer. He came to the end of the hall and nearly collided with a steward, who gaped up at him. "Sir, the captain has ordered a mustering of the passengers—put on your life belt, please, and go to the Boat Deck at once."

"Life belt?" asked Solo, puzzled. The man thrust the white, bulky thing into his hands and continued down the hall, knocking on doors.

 _What the devil_ , he thought. Life belts and a mustering? Surely the ship couldn't be sinking—perhaps the engines or propellers had been damaged, and this was only a preliminary action. He turned and began to walk back down to his stateroom. In the cabins with open doors he passed, stewards were inside, assisting the first class in dressing, putting on their life belts—he scoffed privately. The third class would be so lucky.

The third class—with a start he thought of Miss Nowak, and turned about quickly. If something serious had indeed happened, she would be in danger: third class was so close to the boilers, why, something might explode, something might kill her.

The thought was intolerable. He immediately began to run for the stairs.

* * *

Lady Solo and Miss Harkness, sitting in their sitting room, were both startled by the sudden entrance of a steward, holding life belts and informing them that they must get dressed at once and muster on the Boat Deck.

"Why, it's past midnight," said Clarisse indignantly.

"Let's get dressed, my dear," said Lady Solo, taking her arm. "I am sure the captain would not have given such an order without good reason, after all."

They put on their warmest clothes and shoes. Clarisse brought another coat over her arm, just in case, and they obediently followed the steward's instructions, belting the life belts on and following them out to the stairs.

"My son went out to inquire—he will be returning—" Lady Solo tried to explain as they hustled along.

"Oh, no, ma'am, he will be told to report at the deck if he's seen. Don't worry."

* * *

"Rey?" shouted Solo, raising his voice over the chatter of a multitude of confused tongues in the steerage halls. "Rey! Where are you? Rey!"

"My lord!" shouted a familiar voice, and he caught sight of Ilsa Hansen, waving at him from up above as she hung out of the doorway of her compartment. "Here, she is in here—"

Solo pushed through the crowd of standing people and made his way into the room. Ilsa shut the door fast, and he looked around and saw Rey, sitting and looking very pale on her bunk. "The stewards—they have all been told to get everyone to the boat decks, to get their life belts on. If they haven't been down here yet, they will soon."

"Life belts?" asked Rey, baffled. "But the ship cannot be _sinking_ , surely."

"I haven't the faintest idea, but if the captain has said to muster, then something must be happening." Solo held out the life belt to her. "Take this. Put it on. Miss Hansen, you must take care of your mother and do exactly as the stewards tell you."

"I will, my lord," said Ilsa, and clutched the lady's hand. Mrs. Hansen patted her daughter's shoulder, looking confused.

Rey turned. "I am sure it is nothing. I will be back down in no time at all, and then we can all get some sleep," she said cheerfully. She hugged Ilsa and kissed Mrs. Hansen on the cheek, and then she and Lord Solo were off, hand in hand through the corridor.

Ebba Nilsson waved at her as they passed the room, and she waved back, smiling. Of course they were in no danger: only a muster, and that just meant the captain wanted everyone out of their rooms. They would be perfectly all right: the ship could not sink.

Lord Solo and Rey burst onto the forward deck, and Rey caught her balance: it seemed the deck was uneven, the ice that had landed there slipping off to starboard across the fine planks.

"The ship is listing," said Solo tersely. "We had best get to the Boat Deck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -O BOY, A SECRET WHAT COULD IT BE  
> -Twenty thousand dollars in 1912 is equivalent to about $400,000 in today's money.  
> -I've received a LOT of Greatly Panicked Missives concerning the Survival of our Two Main Parties. I will only say that I am "Cameron-divergent" and there will 100% not be a floating on a door scene.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My letter," said Rey, suddenly stricken. "All my things are below-decks, I left them—"
> 
> "Yes, you ought to go back below-decks at once," said Miss Harkness waspishly. "You oughtn't to be here in the first place, you know; it's a first-class deck only—"
> 
> "It is truly a pity," said Lord Solo, rounding on Clarisse, "that class is determined only by money and not by manners, for if it was the other way round, Miss Nowak would be sitting in Mrs. Astor's suite and you would be in third keeping the Scots and the Irishmen company."

"If you please, ladies and gentlemen, put on your life belts!" shouted a steward again, as Rey and Lord Solo dashed up the deck. They caught laughter from a few groups of people as they passed by them, several people complaining of the cold.

A loud explosion shook the night air, Rey jumped and covered her ears in shock, but Solo took her arm and pointed up: the great smokestacks were venting steam, a low, harsh rumble like a locomotive tootling meeting their ears.

"They're lowering the boats," roared Solo into her ear over the deafening wail.

Rey gripped his arm. "Why?" she shouted back.

"Ben!" shouted a voice, and both Rey and Lord Solo looked up to see Lady Solo and Miss Harkness, wrapped up against the cold and looking shocked to see them. "What are you doing?" demanded his mother. The dreadful sound subsided for a moment.

Ben gripped Rey tightly. "Mother?" His eyes found Clarisse, who looked as if she had turned to shocked stone. "Miss Harkness. I—" The awful sound of steam venting from the boilers again drowned out his words.

Someone was bellowing "women and children first!" out by the rail. Lady Solo turned in astonishment. "Surely it cannot be as bad as that?" she asked, perplexed.

"Of course it's not," said Clarisse, turning round. "Might we go inside? It's so cold, and I can't hear a thing."

"Yes, indeed," said Solo. "The gymnasium—" They ducked into it, shivering, and were met with the sight of several first class passengers merrily playing with the equipment and speaking amongst themselves. Clarisse sighed in relief and rubbed her arms.

"Goodness, I am sure I don't know what the stewards are doing: everyone seems to be contradicting themselves and nobody knows what's happened." Her eyes lighted on Rey. "Miss Nowak, whatever are you doing up here?"

"Oh, Lord Solo came to fetch me," said Rey, feeling very awkward indeed. "He said we all must do as the stewards said, and report to the boat deck."

"I'm sure there is no need for you to be up here in the cold," said Lady Solo, looking quite cold herself. "I shall ask a steward to escort you back down."

Rey did not hear her. Her eyes lighted on the figure of Mr. Andrews, hurrying along with Mr. Ismay, who was in his slippers and pajamas. "Oh—sir!" she cried out, and made her way to him. If anyone knew what had happened, it was him surely. "Mr. Andrews!"

He turned about in bewilderment and found her. "Ah, Miss Nowak, our little dinner guest," he said in his soft Irish lilt. "Whatever can you be doing up here?" He seemed to be moving like a man in a dream, or one that is not quite sure of his bearings.

"Please, sir, what has happened? Why have the engines stopped?"

"I am afraid, miss, that we—we have struck ice, and the boiler rooms, the engines, the lower compartments—they are all flooded." Mr. Andrews put his hand on her shoulder. "Captain Smith has called to abandon ship."

Cold terror settled in Rey's belly. "Abandon ship?" she repeated, feeling numb.

"We might stay afloat for another two hours. I have informed the captain so. Miss Nowak—you ought to get into a lifeboat as soon as you can." Rey stumbled back, horrified, as the gentleman walked away. Two hours? Only two hours? So they were sinking, and nobody was making a run for the boats at all: why, there were the Astors and the Duff-Gordons merrily sipping brandy and having a lively conversation, and nobody seemed alarmed in the least.

She rushed back to Lord Solo's side. "Please, we must all get in a boat immediately," she gasped.

"Whatever are you talking about?" asked Clarisse, surprised.

"We're sinking, Miss Harkness—Mr. Andrews told me so himself—"

"Nonsense," said Lady Solo sternly. "The ship is unsinkable. Mr. Andrews told us so this morning: she may stay afloat with as many as four of her watertight compartments full, isn't that right, Ben?"

"We are listing, Mother," said Lord Solo. "Listing to port. I saw it as I came out on the bow."

"A _listing_ ship does not mean the ship is _sinking_ , Ben. Do not say such a thing, you will cause a panic and it will be for nothing. Look!" She pointed out the windows, where the first lifeboat was being lowered away, with hardly thirty people aboard. "If we were sinking, the officers would have put more people in the boat."

"My letter," said Rey, suddenly stricken. "All my things are below-decks, I left them—"

"Yes, you ought to go back below-decks at once," said Miss Harkness waspishly. "You oughtn't to be here in the first place, you know; it's a first-class deck only—"

"It is truly a pity," said Lord Solo, rounding on Clarisse, "that class is determined only by money and not by manners, for if it was the other way round, Miss Nowak would be sitting in Mrs. Astor's suite and you would be in third keeping the Scots and the Irishmen company."

She went scarlet. "How _dare_ you insult me so—"

Lady Solo gripped Rey by the arm and drew her away from the fighting couple. "Young lady," she said sternly, "you must go back down at once."

"But I—"

The lady's hand tightened. "No, do not argue. You have been a source of both delight and great consternation—and conflict in my son's affairs—and it is for the best for all of us, I think, if you remain below until this present crisis, whatever it is, has passed."

Rey drew herself up, intending to keep her pride. "I have never meant to cause an ounce of conflict to you or your son, ma'am. At the present moment, I believe Miss Harkness is causing him more distress then I ever could. I will go back below—you needn't annoy a steward, they are busy enough. But if—if what Mr. Andrews says is true, and the ship is sinking, then—then I hope you remember me, ma'am, to the end of your days," she said hotly, and turned away without a word, running out the door of the gymnasium.

Lady Solo stared after her in shock. She had never been spoken to so before, at least not to her face, and doubt began to fill her: could it be true? The ship sinking? Out to starboard, another lifeboat was lowering, and she began to wonder if perhaps she might get into one after all, just to be safe. She had not even heard the fight between her son and Miss Harkness escalating until Clarisse struck him across the face, a loud slap echoing across the gymnasium and startling the other occupants, who looked by turns embarrassed, amused, or fascinated.

Ben, aware he had an audience, blinked. "Why, my dear mother hits harder than that, you ought to have her teach you," he said, and several onlookers laughed.

Clarisse, infuriated, whirled on her heel. "I am going back to the stateroom," she declared.

"Oh, no you are not," said Ben, grabbing her by the arm. "You are staying right here with Mother until we discover what is—where is Miss Nowak?"

"She has gone back below-decks," said Lady Solo.

"Below—what do you mean? You sent her back down there?" Lord Solo let go of Clarisse.

"She meant to go and fetch her things," said his mother, impassive.

"Oh, very well," he said, pretending to be aloof, "she is only carrying Grandmother's ruby for me."

Lady Solo's face went white as chalk. "What? You gave _her_ the ring?"

"What ring?" inquired Clarisse, having forgotten her anger at the mention of jewelry.

"Yes, I did," said Lord Solo, "and she promised to hold it safe for me. Why do you think I brought her up here?" He turned to Clarisse. "I must take my leave and go fetch our ballerina: she is carrying a family heirloom for me that my mother seems insistent on losing. You stay here with Mother and do whatever the officers say." He suddenly realized he had no idea if the lower decks might be flooding or not, and he felt—in spite of all the animosity and the mutual dislike, that perhaps he owed this girl who he would never marry some sort of last word. "If I do not return and they start to shoot off rockets, get into a lifeboat as quick as you can. Stay with Mother, whatever happens."

"Lord Solo?" she ventured, eyes round and startled.

"I—I am very sorry. About all of it." Ben turned to his mother. "I will meet you back here on the deck if I can. Stay with her." Then he was off, running like a madman to the door and making a beeline for the stairs.

* * *

Rey was hopelessly lost. She had gone down the first flight of stairs that she saw, and now was wandering a part of the steerage decks she had never been in, white-painted walls utterly silent except for the occasional creaking and groaning. She was not even sure what deck she was on.

"Hello?" she called, trying to get her bearings. "Is anyone down here? Can anyone hear me?"

There was a sound, a skittering as of tiny feet. She turned in surprise, and saw rats: at least twenty of them, great fat brown bodies, racing toward her on their pink little feet. Rey let out a startled shriek and leaped to the side, watching them pass.

Rats escaping a sinking ship, she thought. Yes, they must be running from the bow, to the stern, so—so she must follow the rats. Quickly she ran after them, back toward where she had come from, and climbed up a stair she had not seen before. "Hello!" she shouted.

The stair was barred by a steward in white, locking a gate. "Miss?" he asked, bewildered.

"Please—why is the gate locked? I cannot find my stateroom—it is on E deck, room 59, but—"

"You're on the right deck, miss," he said automatically, "just go back down the stairs and take a right, then a right at the next hall, go all the way down and it's on your right."

"Oh, thank you," she said quickly, and headed back down the stairs, running off.

She had not noticed that the rats had got through the gate.

* * *

Lord Solo burst out of a stair into E deck and shouted in shock: freezing cold water was seeping into his shoes, about three inches deep. He could hear yelling and shouting somewhere distant, and sloshed his way forward. It was much worse than he had thought: water already on this deck? And where on earth was Miss Nowak?

"Miss Nowak!" he began to shout. He turned a corner and was greeted by hundreds of frightened-looking people, some running, some clutching children, all shouting at each other in distress in a myriad of languages. "Miss Nowak!" Lord Solo pushed forward, trying to remember which stateroom she was in. She had originally, he knew, been with the Nilsson family, but then hadn't she said—

Miss Hansen. Horror pierced him. Had the stewards even come down here? Barely a single passenger had a life belt. He felt like a great beetle in a shell, running about stiffly in his vest of cork. "Miss Hansen!" he began to cry out, passing door after door.

"Here, here!" shouted a familiar voice, and he saw to his relief a familiar head of blond hair and a gray one, poking out of a door up ahead. "M'lord!"

Solo bent and embraced them both in relief. "What are you still doing down here?" he demanded.

"Nobody came—nobody has come—" Ilsa was in tears. "I can swim, but my mama cannot."

"You will come with me, then," he said firmly. "Have you seen Miss Nowak?"

"Rey left an hour ago," said Ilsa, baffled. "She said she was going to find out what had happened. Did she not find you?"

"She did, but she came back down: my mother sent her away and I came back to find her." Solo beckoned to Mrs. Hansen, who in addition to being very deaf, only spoke Norwegian. "Come along, ma'am," he said.

The older woman's eyes narrowed and she put her foot into the water with some trepidation. " _Jeg kan ikke svømme_ ," she said, shaking her head and pulling back.

" _Ja, mamma, jeg vet det. Hvis vi går nå, må du ikke prøve_." Ilsa tugged her mother's arm. "She says she cannot swim, she is frightened."

"We must go _now_ ," said Solo urgently. "The water is getting deeper every minute. Tell her the ship is sinking."

" _Skypet sinker, mamma_ ," said Ilsa.

Mrs. Hansen's face smoothed out into an odd expression Solo could not place at first. " _Ja. Gå._ "

" _Nei. Du må komme_ ," said Ilsa insistently. Her mother shook her head and put a hand on her daughter's cheek.

" _Du går, min datter. Fortell din pappa, jeg elsker ham veldig mye._ " Her voice was firm and quiet. " _Vår Herre Jesus vil bli hos meg._ "

"Mamma, _no_ ," Ilsa shouted, tears gathering in her wide blue eyes. She gripped her mother's wrists and pulled, but Mrs. Hansen stayed very put, shaking her head.

"Ilsa—" Solo looked out the door: there was an odd rumbling noise somewhere far away that he did not like the sound of at all.

" _Herr! Herr!_ " Mrs. Hansen was shouting at him now, and he jerked his attention to the lady at once. " _Ta min lille jente! Ta_! T-take! _Take_!"

Solo did not understand a word of Norwegian, but he now understood the look on her face well enough. He had seen it before, on this face of his father under a cold English sky: it was the look of someone done with this earthly life, and ready to meet whatever lay in the great beyond.

Bending down, he gripped Ilsa round her waist and lifted her bodily away from her mother. Ilsa screamed and cried and kicked, but he pulled her to the door anyway, and looked back once at Mrs. Hansen, sitting alone and quiet in her little room, her hands folded.

"God help you, ma'am," he said quietly, and she looked at him with a piercing gaze. It was the last thing he saw before the door slammed shut.

* * *

Rey pushed into the Nilsson's stateroom. It was empty: she desperately hoped that they had made it above-decks, as she had not seen them in the crowded corridor. Her suitcase still lay tucked under the bed, in several inches of water, and she fell to her knees, pulling it out and popping the latches.

The letter! Quickly, she snatched it up and put it into her shirtwaist, tucking it down snugly into her camisole. The lifebelt was a great clumsy thing, making her feel like a turtle. She left the suitcase on the bed: she did not need anything else other than her coat, and the rest could be replaced.

She made her way out into the corridor. The water was growing higher, about at her knees, and was frigidly cold. She slogged through it, shivering, and pushed toward the stair to the deck above.

It was barred. Forty people, shouting and clamoring, stood there crying for the gate to be opened, but the steward stood fast, shouting that he would not open the gate, and that they must find another way out.

"The water is rising!" shouted a young Irishman. "Let us out, for God's sake, man!"

"Miss Nowak," said a familiar voice, and she turned to see James Monroe Mackenzie, his face gone quite pale. "Oh, God save ye, Miss Nowak. I thought ye'd left and been taken away safe. What're ye doin' back down here?"

"I had to—I had to—" Rey turned wildly. Oh, how stupid of her: to go back down for a letter when her life was at stake! "Oh, Mr. Mackenzie, whatever are we to do?"

"Die, I expect," he said stoically. "They willna let us out for the immigration laws, I heard. Trapped like rats, we are."

"No, I saw all the rats running away," said Rey idiotically, and McKenzie laughed.

"Aye, to be sure: the rats will live."

She couldn't bear it. How could they leave them all down here? She turned toward the gate. "Please!" shouted Rey, shouldering through the crush up to the steward on the other side. She gripped the metal, shaking it. "Please, there are women and children here!"

"I'm sorry, miss; I cannot let anyone through," said the steward, shaking his head.

Furious, she slammed her hands against the gate, rattling it. "Damn you!" she shouted. "We're all going to die and it'll be on _your_ head!"

The steward looked shocked. "Go round and find another way out!" he shouted over the din. "It's the law!"

"Oh, I hope you _drown!"_ she screamed, beating at the bars. She turned away and gave Mackenzie a helpless look. Tears welled up in her eyes; it was not fair at all, how could they lock the gate and refuse to open it? "Oh, Mr. Mackenzie, I am so sorry."

"Dinna ye fesh about it, lass," he said kindly. "We will find ourselves a way out."

"Maybe there's an emergency ladder," she said hopefully. "Or—or a hatch."

"Aye, come and let's go see for ourselves." Mackenzie held out his hand and she took it, the pair of them sloshing through the water, away from the locked gate and the crush of people.

* * *

"Put me down!" sobbed Ilsa, beating her fists on Solo's back. "I must go back for Mama!"

"Not till you're in a lifeboat," he shouted back, pushing his way through the water. It was receding as he ran toward the stern of the ship, but he felt as if his feet were numb already. The hallway was stark white, the seawater greeny-blue, and people were shouting and crying and rushing about on all sides. Nobody minded the young man with a woman thrown over his shoulder whatsoever.

Solo made it to the stair and set Ilsa down. "Miss Hansen. You must go up the stairs as fast as you can and get to the Boat Deck. I will find Rey."

"I am not leaving without Mama!" she shouted into his face hysterically, tears pouring.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Ilsa, listen to me!" he shouted. "Your mother—your mama shall be with the angels shortly, and I am sure she will be extremely cross if you join her so soon, won't she?" Ilsa began to weep as if her heart had broken, and Solo gathered the poor girl into his arms. He was not skilled at the art of comforting women at all, but he tried. "You must live and give her message to your father. Yes?"

"Yes," sobbed Ilsa, wiping her face.

"All right, then it is settled. Go up, I think it is three decks, and there should be a sign for the boat deck: come out there and find a lifeboat that is loading and get in. You will be safe." He pulled away from her.

"M'lord, I—I—" Her lip quavered. "I cannot read English," she said. "Only speak it."

Solo closed his eyes. _Rachel, wherever you are, you must find your own way out_ , he thought despondently. He could not abandon this other girl after promising her mother he would take her. "Come, then, Miss Hansen," he said quickly. "I will see you to the Boat Deck safe and into a lifeboat."

* * *

Rey and Mr. Mackenzie had gotten lost again. Up and down corridors, into the water and back out: both of them were shivering and soaked from the waist down. The water was rising, and the floors seemed to tilt crazily no matter where they turned.

"Miss Rey, I do believe I see a ladder there," said Mackenzie, looking up.

Rey squinted up. He was right: ten feet above them was an emergency ladder, painted white and disappearing up into an open shaft—an air-hole of some sort. Rey could see stars, very faint—open air! "Why, I could climb that, but how are we to reach it?"

"Weel, now," said Mackenzie, squinting. "I might lift you on my shoulders, aye? How much d'ye weigh?"

"As if you could lift anything less than a great ox, Mr. Mackenzie," said Rey, smiling. "Very well: you shall lift me and I shall reach down and pull you up."

She clambered up on the man's shoulders, balancing carefully as she reached for the lowest rung. "I—I have almost got it—"

A great crashing _boom-boom-boom_ rocketed through the hall below her, and James Monroe Mackenzie shouted, " _Jump!_ " before flinging her upward with all his strength. Rey caught the rungs with both hands, her body slamming against the metal as she swung to center. She cried out and looked down, and he only looked up at her, his kind face smiling, before a torrent of foaming green sea-water smashed into him and swept him away entirely from her sight.

 _"Jamie!"_ she screamed, clinging to the ladder. The water tore at her clothes, shockingly cold: it threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. There was no use for it, she had to climb, and climb she did, tears running down her face and her teeth chattering, hand over hand and foot over foot, up and up and up until she reached the open air-shaft, hoisted herself out, and collapsed onto the polished slats of A Deck, weeping and trembling as if she would never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Norwegian translations: "I cannot swim"-"Yes, mama, I know, if we go now you won't have to try"-"The ship is sinking, mama" - "Yes. Go."-"No, you must come."-"Go, my daughter. Tell your papa I love him very much. Our Lord Jesus will be with me."-""Sir! Sir! Take my little girl!
> 
> Just you wait till you see the beautiful art I commissioned from clara-gemm for Chapter 12! Ugh I can't waaaait.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Someone said they were letting men in on one side," Hux said faintly, like a man asleep.
> 
> "They may be. Go on. I have—I have an errand to complete before I go. And—Armitage—" He grasped the man's arm firmly. "You were an excellent valent, and if I have not told you so before it was a great oversight on my part."
> 
> The young man gaped, then shut his mouth tight. "I—I hope you make it off, my lord," he said, and shook his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this chapter was done by the incomparable Clara-Gemm. Go follow her on everything ever.
> 
> I'm moving today! Please excuse my lack of internet connection. THANKS.

Solo stormed up the stairs into the lounge pantry of A Deck and up to the Boat Deck with Ilsa Hansen in tow. He did not know the time at all: he only knew a dreadful sense of urgency that filled his entire being: he must get the woman onto a lifeboat as soon as possible, and then hunt down Rey.

Ilsa was no longer sobbing, but clinging to his hand with a stern set in her blue eyes. She had decided to live, and that was no small thing at all at a time like this. They made it out to the deck, to be greeted by a baffling scene. The orchestra had set up by the gymnasium, playing cheerful tunes as gentlemen and ladies sat in deck chairs and watched the life-boats being filled.

"Christ Almighty," said Solo. "Ilsa, come with me quick." He took her over to where they were filling a boat portside, and quickly took off his life belt, putting over the girl's head and tying it tightly. Their breath smoked in the freezing air. "You'll be all right," he said to her as he moved. "I will find Rey, and I will put her in another boat: you'll find each other later, and everything will be all right."

Ilsa clutched his hands and looked directly into his eyes. "They will not let men on the boats," she said.

"Don't worry about me. I can swim. I will be all right." He kissed her cheek. "You go on. I will meet you later."

The girl reached forward and seized his shoulders, blue eyes blazing. "If you do not live, and if you do not find Rey again, then you must take this, from her." Her wide, gentle mouth kissed him firmly on the lips, and she pulled back. "She loves you very much, sir."

Solo nodded, struggling to keep his composure. "I will. And I will find her." He took her arm and turned, waving at one of the officers loading the boat. "Here! Sir, I have a young lady—"

Ilsa stepped carefully, her face set, as the officer helped her into the boat: the Countess of Rothes was already sitting inside. Solo recognized her hat. "Come then, my lord, send her in and she can sit with me," called the Countess.

"Take care of her!" shouted Solo. "She's a fine pianist!" Ilsa sat down, clinging to the sides, her face white but full of determination. Solo thought for a moment he could see a trace of the ancient Vikings in her fine, high-cheekboned face, and then the boat was lowering, Ilsa Hansen disappearing over the side.

Solo turned around, unsure of what he should do next. He could see his mother and Clarisse, standing as if in a dream by the gymnasium door, next to Mrs. Brown and the baffled-looking Mrs. Astor. The orchestra was still playing merrily, as if nothing was amiss at all. And Rey—

Rey! He turned about, remembering: he must find her at once and ensure her safety. She must still be below decks. Solo dashed back toward the doors to go inside and find the stairs: he would cover every inch of the bloody ship if he had to, so long as he found her.

The great staircase was filled with confused people, milling about and chatting. Solo caught sight of Mr. Steffanson, standing as if stunned, and with a shock remembered: _La Circassienne,_ and his folio: his sketches and all his work! He could not lose it: it might be his only memory of Miss Nowak should she perish.

He turned about and ran for the stairs, descending down to B Deck.

* * *

Rey scrambled on her hands and knees up to her feet and took stock of her surroundings: she was on the promenade deck, toward the stern of the boat, and there were people walking about as if they had no idea whatsoever the terror of water that was seeping into the lower decks.

She clung to her arms, fighting off the chill, and began to run: the Boat Deck was above her and she must get inside and find the stairs at once. "Ben, oh, Ben," she panted, tears gathering in her eyes as she went along, "where _are_ you?"

* * *

Solo snatched up his folio in their stateroom and looked around, silently bidding the place farewell, before running back out into the corridor. It was tilting more noticeably, and he nearly tripped on the incline once or twice, but made it back out the great baized doors and to the forward staircase, hurrying down them. His feet felt numb inside his wet shoes. Idiotically, he thought that he should have changed his socks.

He thought he heard a voice calling his name, and looked around hopefully, but did not see Rey at all, and cursed inwardly. A trick of the noise, that was all. "Damn you, Miss Nowak," he muttered under his breath, "where are you?"

"Lord Solo!" shouted the voice again, and he turned, surprised, to see his valet—Hux! The man was paler than usual, and looked very much shocked. "What is happening, sir? Nobody seems to know."

He gripped the man by his shoulders and looked directly at him. His eyes were wide, pale green and frightened, his red hair in disarray. "Hux. We have hit something and taken on water. We are sinking, I believe. You ought to go get into a lifeboat while you can—they are loading them on the Boat Deck. Lady Solo is up there now."

"Someone said they were letting men in on one side," Hux said faintly, like a man asleep.

"They may be. Go on. I have—I have an errand to complete before I go. And—Armitage—" He grasped the man's arm firmly. "You were an excellent valent, and if I have not told you so before it was a great oversight on my part."

The young man gaped, then shut his mouth tight. "I—I hope you make it off, my lord," he said, and shook his hand.

"Go. Quickly!" Solo watched the orange head of hair disappear up the stairs. He turned about, still clutching his folio, and made for the descending stair.

He only got as far as the stairs to E Deck before being stopped in his tracks by a flood of water, covering the stairs nearly halfway up. "Miss Nowak!" he bellowed, bending his head down and peering about. He could see nothing at all, and the water had already risen to the ceiling. He checked his pocket-watch: it was just past one in the morning, and Rey nowhere to be found: if the water was this high already then she had surely drowned, trapped below.

Solo automatically turned away and climbed back up the stairs, fighting tears. He wanted to be angry, to rage and storm and kick something down, but all he felt was immeasurable grief. She had died alone and cold and he had not even had the chance to say goodbye to her, or to stop her from going, because he had been fighting with Clarisse instead, like the fool he was. _Now I have two deaths on my head_ , he thought miserably, and rounded the corner, trudging back up to A Deck.

* * *

Rey wandered the inside of A Deck by the forward grand staircase, feeling as if she was having a terrible dream. People were standing about, looking baffled, but not frightened—how could they not know? Was everyone mad? Was _she_ mad? She was so cold: soaked from the waist down, her skirt clinging to her, hip to ankle.

The Boat Deck. She must find the Boat Deck. Jamie Mackenzie's face floated in her memory again, slammed out of sight by a rushing flood of seawater, and she covered her eyes, trying to fight the memory. It was not fair: he would never meet his little Eileen, or see his wife, or his other children—it was not fair! She fell on the stairs, curling up by the fine scrolled ironwork, and clung to it, weeping.

"Rachel!" cried a familiar voice, hoarse and deep. " _Rey!_ Rey Nowak!"

She turned, blind with tears, her face looking for the speaker as a sunflower seeks the sun, and made out a great dark figure rushing at her from the lower stairs before she was pulled into a pair of strong arms and embraced tightly. "Lord Solo," she gasped, and tried to return the embrace, but her arms were trapped at her sides by both the clumsy life-belt and his arms.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, holding her at arm's length as if to check her all over, voice thick with tears and relief. "You're soaked to the skin."

"M-Mackenzie," she managed, teeth chattering, whether with cold or the shock she did not know. "He's dead. He got me out up an emergency ladder, but the water—the water s-swept him away, and he's _dead_ —"

Solo pulled her back into an embrace and cupped her head gently. "Hush. It's all right," he said, trying to be soothing. His mind cast upon something the minister had said at his father's funeral. "He—he is out of reach of any more pain now. We must go at once to the lifeboats. Come on."

Rey, as if in a dream, clung to his hand and followed up back up the stairs, and out to the Boat Deck. "Ilsa—I left her and her mother—"

"Ilsa is perfectly safe. I put her in a lifeboat ten minutes ago. Mrs. Hansen—" He choked on his own grief for a moment. "Mrs. Hansen ordered me to take her daughter to safety, and chose to stay below." Rey buried her face in his coat, weeping fresh tears for the poor lady, but Solo shook her gently. "Listen to me. You will have all the time in the world to grieve—after you are put safe on a boat. Yes?"

"Y-yes," she sobbed, and he picked her up bodily in a bridal-carry and hurried up the stairs as if she weighed nothing at all: she was light in his arms, even with the heavy soaked dress and threadbare coat.

They emerged onto the deck, port-side, to a cacophony of noise, a shouting officer directing another boat to be filled. "Ben!" shouted Lady Solo's voice, and she rushed to her son, looking stricken and followed by a still-bewildered Clarisse. "Ben, thank God, you are all right—"

"Mother. Clarisse. Get into that boat." Solo set Rey onto her feet, and she wavered a moment, then looked at Clarisse, tears in her eyes.

"You are soaked!" exclaimed Clarisse. "Why, did you go overboard?"

"No," said Rey blankly, "the boat is sinking, and I only escaped E Deck because a gentleman flung me into an emergency ladder shaft. He is dead."

"Dead!" Clarisse gaped in surprise. "And the boat is sinking? But it can't be!"

"I assure you, madam, it is," said Solo. "E Deck is up to the ceiling in water. I've seen it with my own eyes."

"My God," said Lady Solo.

"Ma'am!" shouted the officer. "Women and children may get aboard!"

Lady Solo shook her head, her eyes wide and frightened for the first time. "No, I cannot leave without my son. He is my only child—"

"Mother, go on." Solo took her by the hands. "The starboard side is allowing men to board. I will find a life-boat. Take Miss Nowak with you, and get on the boat."

"I'm not leaving you, sir," said Rey firmly, through her chattering teeth.

"Oh, yes you are," he said. "You've had enough excitement for the evening: now take my folio and get on the boat."

"I will not!" she insisted, turning on him. "How could I leave you on a sinking ship? I have watched Mackenzie die: I cannot watch you do the same!"

Solo seized her by the upper arms, torn between kissing her and shaking her. "There are only so many life-boats, and not enough for everyone—"

"Miss Nowak," said Lady Solo, white in the face, "you must come with us. Ben is right. You cannot have gone down and saved your letter of recommendation for nothing; and I will not have your death on my hands a second time. Come."

"Letter," said Rey distantly, and clutched at her breast, where the paper was still safely stowed. "Yes. My letter." Her desire to be a great dancer had seemed suddenly very far away, in the face of the crisis; and now as she stood looking at Lady Solo and Clarisse, it seemed perfectly reasonable that she should go with them into the lifeboats. Why, Ilsa was already somewhere below in the water, and she would be a fool not to go and find her. "Yes. I'll go."

Clarisse took the coat off her arm: it was a fine fur thing, soft and warm. "Here, you must be half-frozen, running about all wet like that," she said, and wrapped it around the other young woman. Rey stuck her arms into the sleeves and turned to Ben, feeling very much like an Inuit of the North.

"You must find a lifeboat," she said haltingly, taking his folio for him. "Please. Promise me."

"Of course I will," he said firmly, and kissed her on the forehead. "Go with Mama Leia and Clarisse: they'll take care of you." He looked at his mother: something unspoken passed between them, and she turned away, her face a stoic mask.

Rey allowed herself to be led away from his warm hands and over the edge of the boat, where she sat, huddling in Clarisse's coat and facing the pair of them. "Lower away!" shouted the officer—Lightoller, she thought his name was—and they were jerking up and over the side with a great creak and groan. Clarisse shrieked in terror and clung to Lady Solo, who patted her and reached for Rey's knee.

"He will be all right," she said, but she did not sound sure.

"Oarsmen!" shouted a woman, and the cry was taken up as they dropped inch by inch. "Please, we need oarsmen!"

Lightoller looked about in desperation. "Oarsmen!" he bellowed. "Have we got an oarsman among us?"

"I am, sir!" shouted a bearded, middle-aged man, raising his hand. "Royal Canadian Yacht-Club!"

"Get on in!" shouted Lightoller over the noise, and the man reached up, taking hold of the ropes and shimmying down them quick, landing in the boat firmly and settling himself. "Major Arthur Peuchen," he said politely, shaking hands with the shocked woman he was sitting next to.

"Hey!" shouted an indignant female voice from just above as they cleared the deck by a foot or so. Rey looked up in shock to see Maggie Brown, lifted bodily into the air by a crewman and dropped over the edge. She had just enough time to shriek in startled surprise before Mrs. Brown, like a great comet hurtling to earth, landed in the boat's bottom with a shout.

"Gracious, Mrs. Brown," said Clarisse, looking shocked. "Good evening."

The lady righted herself and sat, looking none the worse for wear. "Well, as long as I'm on board, I'll have a thing or two to say about this evening, Miss Mary," she said. "Oh, hello, Rachel. Made it out, huh?"

"I—I suppose," said Rey, very disoriented.

"I heard a crewman say the captain gave orders that women and children only were to be allowed on the lifeboats," said Mrs. Brown next, to Lady Solo. "I tell you what, I don't know _what's_ going on."

Rey jerked upright, shocked out of her stupor. "Why, Maggie— _what_ did he say?"

"Women and children only. I heard Astor telling people we were safer on the ship, I don't know _where_ Mr. Andrews has got to, and—hey!" Rey had stood up in her seat, trembling with fear and paying no mind to the shouting quartermaster, Hichens, who ordered her to sit. Even Lord Solo, still on the Boat Deck several feet back, shouted at her, but she did not hear him.

No men at all on any of the boats? Impossible: they couldn't mean to doom them all to drowning. Ben—Ben would die, and so would every man aboard. The thought was unbearable. If he was to die, then he should not die alone like James Mackenzie or Mrs. Hansen. She turned to Clarisse, resolve firm. "Miss Harkness," she said, "thank you for the coat. I am very sorry. I do not think you will be married after all." Clarisse's mouth fell open. "I wish you the best of happiness. Lady Solo—" here she turned to the fine lady, who was sitting and staring up at her as if she was a madman. "Please, I wish to take back what I said in the gymnasium: this is not your fault at all, and you must—you must forgive me."

"For what, child?" Lady Solo asked, stunned.

"For all the grief and conflict I have caused you," said Rey, tearing up again, "and oh, all over a dance. I am very sorry." She turned back to Clarisse and made as if to take the borrowed coat off, but the young lady stopped her, a hand on her arm.

"Don't you _dare_ take that off," she said, voice quavering. "You keep it and—and good luck, Miss Nowak!"

Rey turned. They were nearly level with A Deck now, the promenade close by. "You keep this for Ben," she said, and pressed the leather folio into Lady Solo's hands. "Keep it for him!"

The lady's dark eyes found hers, stricken. "Miss— _Rey!"_

"Rey!" barked Lord Solo, ten feet above as he looked over the side. " _No!_ "

"Goodbye," she said simply, and leaped for the side. There was a scream from the boat's occupants, swearing from Hichens, but she clung to the rail tightly, scrambling up over it in a mass of fur and the life-belt and her cold, sodden skirt before landing in a pile on the deck. She got to her feet and pressed a hand to her side, gasping for air, as she began to run, limping slightly, back through the crowd of passengers to the stairs.

* * *

Rey stumbled into the Grand Staircase, half-crying, and was met by Lord Solo coming down them, a look of astonishment on his face. "Ben," she panted, and was caught up in his arms again for the second time, sobbing, and he was sobbing too, his breath coming in harsh groans: but he was alive, and warm, and solid! Oh, that was all that mattered for now.

"What were you _thinking_?" he demanded, his hands grasping her tightly. "What's the matter with you, Miss Nowak: you fool, you little idiot, Rey, you—you—" His body belied his words: he was kissing her all over, crying, holding her tightly as the crowd around them rushed and shouted out to each other.

"I couldn't go without you," she wept, "and they said they were not letting men on at all: I don't know what is happening or what will happen, but I know one thing, and that's that I won't go without you, not anywhere!"

"I will not let you die here." Solo straightened up and looked her directly in the face. "You hear me? You are not going to die here, not tonight. They are loading boats with men aboard; they must be, and we will find one."

"We must go together," she said, wiping her eyes. "Your mother has your folio safe and sound: I gave her my regards."

"That was very kind of you," he said, smiling through his own tears. "Come on, we must go back up again: and I don't mean to make this trip up these infernal stairs one more time, either—my legs are aching."

* * *

They emerged out on the deck again and went to the port-side. The ship was listing noticeably now, and people were beginning to look frightened. "There," said Solo, pointing. "There's a lifeboat boarding."

She took his hand and pulled him toward the boat, being manned by an officer she did not know. "Sir," she shouted desperately as others passed her, "will you let my fiancé on board with me?"

"Women and children only, miss!" he shouted, shaking his head.

"Which boats are allowing on the men?" demanded Rey, but he had no answer, shaking his head. She turned to Ben, bewildered. "Should we go round to starboard?"

Rockets fired off above them, exploding into bursts of white sparks overhead. A few people laughed, but Solo was looking at her, the strange angles of his face cast into sharp lighting by the rockets. "No. There is no time. I told you, I will not let you die tonight."

"But—"

He gripped her arm and held her tight. "Listen to me. I had thought you dead before, when I could not find you, and I wanted to fling myself into the ocean for it. Now you are alive, and as long as you are alive and I know you are safe, I will have a reason to live."

She stood firm, shaking her head. "You _cannot_ make me go into that boat alone—"

"I can, and I will," Solo said, shaking her gently. "Rachel Maria Nowak, you are not going to die tonight. You will get into that lifeboat, and you will take your letter to New York and dance for every rich and pompous ass from here to San Francisco. You may meet my mother again, you may have a hard time of it down there in those boats; but you are not allowed to die until you are a hundred years old and have ten great-grandchildren, and that is an order: do you understand me?"

Rey thrashed, trying to break out of his grasp as he marched her toward the boat. "I won't go!" she screamed through her tears. "I won't go, I _won't go_!"

"I love you very much," he said, tears on his cheeks, and kissed her cheek as she struggled. "I will see you in the morning."

" _Ben!"_ she wailed, as he handed her over to the officer.

"She'll be all right, sir: thank you, step back." The man heaved her into the boat, which seemed to be half-full of frightened Swedish third and second-class passengers: women and children. Rey righted herself, intending to make a dash for the side again, but the officer shouted to lower away.

She flung herself at the side anyway, and a great pair of arms caught her about the middle as she kicked and struggled and cried, trying to reach him: his pale long face was watching her from the crowd—he could not die, he could _not_ —

"Rey-chel," said a gentle voice, and she collapsed backward, sobbing helplessly, in the iron arms of Ebba Nilsson. The boat jerked from side to side, and most of the women cried out in fear, but Rey never made a noise. She kept her eyes fixed on Ben until they had gone past the sight-line of the deck, and then she cried as though her heart would break.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo had just enough time to see a foaming, churning wave approaching him with alarming velocity before he was struck by it, full-on, and torn from his place. The cold bit into him like a thousand shards of ice: he was smashed against the hull of the lifeboat with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and he swallowed a half-pint of freezing seawater.
> 
> He was plunged into frigid, stinging blackness. There was no way to tell which end was up, and for a moment of shocking lucidity he thought perhaps this was all right: perhaps drowning was a decent way to go. He had said his goodbyes, and both Mama and Miss Nowak were perfectly safe. Yes, this might be all right. Solo let himself relax, preparing to give over to the ocean.

Lord John Benjamin Solo staggered away from the lifeboats and into a deck chair. He felt empty and dull: all the color in his life had gone over the edge in Boat Sixteen, and he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a very great precipice that he himself must go over, sooner or later.

"Brandy, sir?" asked a steward. He took it mechanically and gulped it down: it warmed him a little, and he felt strengthened. Looking about, he could see that many more people had seemed to grasp the severity of the situation. More rockets were firing off, exploding overhead and lighting the pale, frightened faces below. He could see old Mr. and Mrs. Straus, sitting together quite calmly in a pair of deck chairs, and both of them had the same expression he had recognized on the face of Mrs. Hansen: acceptance, resignation to their fate.

Three close gunshots rang out, splitting the night and making people gasp and turn in shock. Solo saw an officer wielding a pistol and shouting at the crowd, pressing up against a lifeboat. "Get back!" he bellowed, waving it fiercely. "Get back off the rails, you cowards: we have women and children to save!"

Solo thought he might as well head starboard, to see whether they were letting men into boats there. He got to his feet and strolled over, wending through the crowds of confused and frightened people. He had given his life-belt to Ilsa, and he was not sure he would find another. From his position, he could see how low _Titanic_ was in the water. _Christ,_ he thought distantly as he made his way into the warm interior, by the forward staircase. _We are truly sinking._

"Lord Solo," said a voice, and he turned, dazed, to see Mr. Guggenheim and his valet, both dressed impeccably in evening-tails and hat, sitting in the foyer in deck chairs and drinking brandy.

"Mr. Guggenheim," he said automatically. "Good evening. Is Mme. Aubart—?"

"Oh, she is quite safe," the man assured him. "Saw her into a lifeboat myself, with her maid." He sipped at his brandy again. "I see you have no life-belt, either. So. Prepared to go down like a gentleman with us?"

"I—" Solo looked down at himself: his wet shoes, his coat, shirtsleeves and no jacket. "No," he said.

"Well, should you make it—you tell my wife that I played the game out straight to the end, eh?" Guggenheim nodded at Solo stoically. "No women shall be left on this ship because Ben Guggenheim was a coward."

"I will tell her, sir," said Solo, and staggered away, toward the starboard side.

* * *

Lady Solo clutched Clarisse's hands as the lifeboat pulled slowly away from the ship. The lights from the portholes and the decks gleamed out over the sea, and they could see how low the boat was in the water.

"Are we going to die?" asked Clarisse, her voice gone shaky and frightened.

"You must not think that," said Lady Solo firmly. "You must have hope."

"It is all my fault," said the young woman, and began to cry. "If I had only insisted we sail Cunard instead—none of this would have happened, and we should all be safe and asleep in bed now."

"Don't be silly," said Lady Solo, switching her seat and wrapping an arm around the girl. "It would have happened whether we were on the ship or not, and anyway it is too late to worry about that now." She shook her head, watching her breath smoke in the freezing air. "May God help my son, and his little _ballerine_."

Clarisse was silent. "He cares very much for her, doesn't he?" she ventured.

"I believe so," said Lady Solo. "If I had—if I—" Tears began to well up in her eyes, tears breaking past the stoic manner she had built up for so long. "Oh, I am a fool. The money from Luke would have been enough: why have I done such a thing?"

"I don't—I don't understand—" Clarisse said blankly, and was interrupted by Mrs. Rothschild's Pomeranian, who was shivering and yapping in the cold air.

"Do keep that thing quiet," said Hichens angrily.

"Oh, leave her alone," said Mrs. Brown, who was tending to another woman's broken ankle. "It's cold enough, and the poor animal's just saying what we're all thinking."

There was scattered laughter, but it died quickly, all of them sitting in the cold, watching the great ship tilt ever lower into the frozen Atlantic.

* * *

Rey had cried all her tears out. There were no more left to shed as they rowed away from the _Titanic_ , the electric lights glimmering on the surface of the black, cold water. Ebba patted her cheek and murmured in soft Swedish, and little Alva crawled into her lap, burrowing into the fine fur coat. " _Jag vet_ ," repeated Ebba, over and over. " _Min man var kvar_. _Jag vet. Jag vet._ "

" _Pappa kommer senare_ ," said Anna, stern-looking beyond her ten years. " _Han lovare."_

Ebba began to weep silently, gathering her eldest daughter into her arms and shaking her head, and Rey clung to little Alva tightly. "Ebba—is Olaf—where is Olaf?"

Ebba seemed to grasp the gist of her words, and shook her head again, tears on her broad face. " _Med din man,_ " she said, and pointed at the great ship, listing badly, bow-down in the water. " _Och båda är med Gud_."

Anna began to cry, her face buried in her mother's neck, and Rey picked up little Erik, who was too young to know what was happening, but did not care for the cold. "Come here," she said firmly, "you stay in here with Alva and keep warm."

"Where did you get such a coat, miss?" asked a youngish stewardess.

" _Ja, var fick du det?"_ asked Oskar with interest, paying no heed to his mother and sister's tears. He could understand English all right, but not speak it very well, and he considered himself quite a grown-up: why were Mamma and Anna crying when Pappa had said he would see them later?

"Oh," said Rey, "I fought a great big bear _—_ " here she made a face and pretended to growl, Oskar giggling at her, "and made myself a fine coat out of his skin." Oskar rattled off her translation in Swedish, and a few of the other passengers chuckled. Rey felt warmer: the two little children felt like space-heaters, and she tucked the coat about them more firmly. Of course Ben would be all right, and maybe Olaf, too. The ship was still above-water, and there were lifeboats on the deck. She must keep hope, for without hope, she would have nothing at all. "Shall I tell you a good warm story? The story of the Firebird?"

" _Ja!"_ said Oskar, eagerly scrambling close to her knee, wrapped up in a shawl and a coat. " _Ja, historien om Firebirden!"_ The other children swung their heads about, interested: here was a diversion from the cold and the rocking boat and their crying mamas.

"All right," said Rey firmly, and leaned forward. "Here is the tale of the Firebird, and I will go slowly so Oskar can translate. There was once a handsome prince, called Ivan, and he was hunting in the forests of Russia, far away and long ago, but he went too far into the dark, deep woods, and stumbled into the realm of the wicked Koschei the Immortal…"

* * *

"Oh, God in Heaven," said Lady Solo suddenly, startling Clarisse. "Miss Nowak still has the ruby ring."

* * *

Solo stumbled onto a starboard lifeboat that was boarding quickly, and saw a young steward pushing another man in. "May I board?" he shouted, waving. A twelve-year old girl was climbing in, her arms full of blankets, and he stepped back to let her pass.

"I don't want to go!" shouted a hysterical young woman, struggling with the steward. "Please! I've never been on an open boat in my _life_ —"

"You have got to go anyway," shouted the man, "so you might as well go quietly!" He got her in and looked at Solo. "You might come along, sir, the women are all aboard here—"

Two officers rushed past Solo, and he turned in confusion as he caught part of their conversation. "—need a man or two, get the collapsible put up—"

He paused in indecision. He could go into the boat, or he could assist the officers in getting down another boat and help—

No, he was a fool. There was no conflict at all. Solo stepped back. "Go on, and good luck," he said quickly, and turned away, following the officers forward. The deck was slanted, and he fought to keep his footing as he made his way toward the bridge, past the lowering cutters.

The two officers were already kneeling, struggling with the collapsible boat on the starboard side. "Over to the left—Christ, man," said one, who was clean-shaven, to the other, who had a moustache.

"Might I be of assistance?" shouted Solo, and they looked down the deck in surprise.

"You're a big one—come up here and lift the side," said the one with the moustache, motioning him up. Solo reached up and lifted the canvas: finally, something to do! "We've got to get the canvas sides attached, and the whole thing has got to be put onto the davits and the falls," he explained.

"Right," said Solo, eyeing the construction. "Easy enough: let me help you."

"Good man," said the other. "I'm Chief Officer Wilde, that's First Officer Murdoch." He shook Solo's hand. "Get round and get ready to lift on my signal."

Solo lifted the side into place as Murdoch settled the other down, and reached up to arrange the pulleys on the falls. "Christ, but it's a bloody cold business," said Wilde, struggling with the ropes.

"Here, let me," said Solo, and managed to get them attached properly. He was not a nautically-minded man, but it was simple enough to get the ropes hooked into the pulleys. "Right. Pull away, gentlemen."

They heaved the boat over, nearly missing a purser with the swinging bow. He dashed back just in time, and the lifeboat dangled over the deck, ready to be filled.

A flood of people rushed the boat: stewards, third-class passengers. Two managed to climb in. The purser drew his pistol and fired a warning shot, bellowing for them to stay back, and Solo, to his astonishment, saw Mr. Steffanson and another man he did not know stepping forward, pushing the crowd back and dragging out the two men who had managed to crawl into the boat. "Get out, you cowards: women and children first!" he shouted.

Mr. Ismay, still, ludicrously, in his pajamas and slippers, appeared with a group of women and children in tow. "Here, sir," he called out, "put them in and heave away!"

As the boat was loading, Wilde called out again for more women and children, but when none were forthcoming, he turned helplessly. "Men, then," he said, and several men climbed in. Ismay hesitated, looked from side to side, and quickly got in, sitting down by a woman in a head-scarf and shawl.

Solo gripped the stern ropes and Wilde gripped the aft: they heaved it over the side of the ship, beginning to lower it, and the side crashed against the hull: the list was so severe that the boat was in contact. "Push away!" shouted Wilde, motioning. Ismay and the other men grabbed up oars and pushed the boat back from the hull, hands coming out to push: brown hands, white hands, hands in shirt-sleeves and hands in coats, moving the boat down like some great insect, hand over hand, oar over oar.

With a splash, the boat hit the water. Solo wiped his brow and checked his pocket-watch. It was two in the morning, and his arms ached like fire.

"We cannot launch any more boats on this side: get to starboard," said Murdoch.

They crossed over, slipping on the deck, and were just in time to watch the second collapsible being lowered into the sea, Steffanson and his companion leaping into it from the deck.

"A Deck is flooding," said Wilde tightly. "Lightoller—" The other officer turned immediately.

"We must get up on the roof and get the last two down," he ordered. "Come with me."

* * *

"Would you help a fellow out and row?" asked Major Peuchen, seated in Boat Six.

"No," said Hichens stubbornly. "I have got the tiller, and Fleet is right there."

"Oh, God," said the woman with the broken ankle, staring out behind them. "It's really _sinking_."

Clarisse turned in horror: indeed, the stern seemed to be lifting ever so slowly, the bow underwater. "Oh, God," she echoed in shock, eyes wide.

Lady Solo gripped the leather folio in her arms and held it tightly to her chest. She would not look up. "My son," she whispered, her voice trembling. "My _son_."

* * *

Solo was frantically helping Wilde and Lightoller on the roof of the officers' quarters. They had gotten the third collapsible boat together and rigged up a makeshift ramp with a few oars. With a loud "Heave!" from Lightoller, he pushed the thing down it with Wilde and another officer he did not know. Murdoch was on the other side, doing the same with the last boat.

The angle was wrong, all wrong. The lifeboat they had pushed crashed right through the oars and planks they had set up and smashed to the deck, hull-up, like a turtle. "Bugger!" shouted Lightoller, and looked to the bow, his face white with horror. "Jump for it, man!" he yelled, and dove off the roof.

Solo had just enough time to see a foaming, churning wave approaching him with alarming velocity before he was struck by it, full-on, and torn from his place. The cold bit into him like a thousand shards of ice: he was smashed against the hull of the lifeboat with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and he swallowed a half-pint of freezing seawater.

He was plunged into frigid, stinging blackness. There was no way to tell which end was up, and for a moment of shocking lucidity he thought perhaps this was all right: perhaps drowning was a decent way to go. He had said his goodbyes, and both Mama and Miss Nowak were perfectly safe. Yes, this might be all right. Solo let himself relax, preparing to give over to the ocean.

A deafening groan filled his ears, and he jerked back to life in terror. His legs kicked furiously, and he hoped desperately that he was swimming up, up, he must have air, he would die—

He surfaced, choked, spat out water, and trod water. It was so cold that he could hardly feel his limbs. "Help!" he screamed, in a racket of people shouting and screaming the same, and heard that awful creaking groan again, somewhere above, far above. He looked up, and saw the forward funnel creaking, looming forward—God, it was going to break off, it was going to crush them all!

He struck out, swimming frantically away from the ship, and had just rolled over to gauge his distance when there was a dreadful snapping sound from far away, and agony laid open his face from below his eye to his throat. Solo screamed in anguish, hot blood rushing down his right cheek and neck, burning like fire as seawater splashed it: what in the name of God had struck him? Where was Lightoller? Where was the boat? He grasped at his throat, but his hands were numb: he could not feel a thing.

Disoriented and in pain, he finally spied the white hull, people clinging on; dark shapes in bulky white life-belts. He forced himself to swim, his head above the water so as not to get more salt in the wound—whatever it was. He neared it, forced his numb hands out of the water, and clambered onto the hull, dragging his soaked body from the icy sea.

"Thank God," said a familiar voice, and he looked up to see Lightoller's familiar face: similarly soaked and crouching on the hull. "Get these poor souls up, if you can."

Solo turned and held a hand out to an older gentleman with a mustache, who clambered up nimbly and thanked him. "Colonel Gracie, at your service," he said, as if they had met at dinner.

"I'm—I'm Ben," said Solo. The burning wound across his face was making his eyes smart and water, and the pain was so bad that he turned, retching over the side of the hull and narrowly missing another man climbing up. "I mean," he continued, raising himself back up, "I'm Lord Solo."

"That's all right, young man," said Gracie, patting him on the back. "Brave one, you are: not even a life-belt."

"I gave it away," Solo explained. He was beginning to shiver violently.

"Bride!" shouted Lightoller, and dragged a man whose head had appeared from the side of the boat up to the hull. "I thought you were dead for sure!"

"N-no," chattered the young man, "just stuck under the bloody boat. I was in the right place, but the boat is all wrong."

That brought some laughter, and Solo huddled close to Gracie, drawing his sodden coat about his shoulders. The laughter died as the sight before them: the massive liner was jutting out of the water, stern in the air, and the sound that filled the night was like a massive locomotive—smashing and banging and roaring, explosions in the bowels of the ship all going off one after the other. The whole thing began to slowly revolve as it descended, the crowd of people still aboard clinging to the stern like so many ants slowly turning out of sight. "Holy God Almighty," said Lightoller, his voice trembling.

The lights on the ship flickered, and flickered again; then went out entirely, plunging them all into cold darkness. There were a few more awful, groaning noises from far away, far inside the ship, and then, with one final sound of a bursting bulkhead, the _Titanic_ slid silently into the freezing sea.

* * *

"The Firebird took Prince Ivan to a tree stump, deep in the forest," Rey said to the wide-eyed children, shivering in her seat. "Inside, there was the casket, and inside the casket, there was an egg: the egg that contained Koschei's soul. Ivan picked up his mighty sword and with a great blow, smashed the egg all to pieces. The spell was broken then: all the terrible enchanted creatures that had chased him about were freed! They would never do Koschei's bidding again, and the magical palace disappeared into thin air, like mist: all of it was gone away forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE ONE: Swedish translations!  
> -"I know. My husband was left behind. I know. I know." -- "Papa is coming later. He promised." -- "With your man. And both of them are with God."--"Yes, where did you get it?"  
> NOTE TWO: Regarding the sinking and our Lord Solo's limited POV.  
> -You'll likely remember Mr. Guggenheim from the film. He did go down with the ship and his body was never recovered. He was 46.  
> -Murdoch and Wilde both died in the water.  
> -The twelve year old girl boarding Boat 13 with blankets was named Ruth Becker. She had been barred from getting into the overloaded Boat 11, where her mother and two sisters had secured places, and she was one of the few who brought blankets from her stateroom, which were used later to keep the men warm as they rowed. Solo missed this as he was assisting the officers, but Boat 13 was almost swamped by water as it lowered.  
> -Madeline Astor survived. Her husband did not. His body was recovered.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She kept speaking, and noticed the little heads dropping off to sleep one by one, yawning and listening to her, not to the dreadful, far-away noise of a thousand souls perishing in the cold water. Rey shut her ears to it: she could not think of Ben out there now. "…but the oldest daughter was rude to the fairy, and told her she should get her own water from the well, and the fairy was insulted and gave her a gift, too: that every time she spoke, toads and snakes should fall from her mouth…"

The black, cold night stretched out to the starless horizon, the women's breath coming in smoky drifts. "We have to go back," said Mrs. Brown, looking stern. The shouts and cries of a thousand people in the water freezing to death was a din so awful that a few women were crying, some covering their ears.

"I agree," said Peuchen stoically. "Let's turn about and pick up a few, eh? Poor souls—"

"We are doing no such thing," said Hichens angrily. "Stop your rowing at once."

"They're dying out there!" snapped the woman with the broken ankle. "We ought to do something: it's only right—"

"What is your name?" Hichens demanded.

"Helen. Mrs. Helen Candee." The woman drew herself up; she was about fifty, and possessed a look to her that suggested she would not be easily swayed.

"Then sit down, Mrs. Helen Candee, and shut your mouth," Hichens said. "There's no good in going back. They'd swamp us. We have no compass. They're as good as dead and it would do nobody any good. It's our lives we have to watch out for now, not theirs."

Lady Solo put her arm around Clarisse as the young woman covered her ears, trembling at the distant, awful noise. "They're all dying," she gasped, staring up at her with shock. "Oh, God, Lady Solo: I had thought everyone made it off, I had thought—there must be a thousand people out there in the water."

"Yes," said Lady Solo, not knowing what else to say. She clutched her son's folio: was Ben among the poor souls in the water? First her husband, now her son: it was too much of a loss to even think about.

"I remember now," Clarisse said, half-frantic. "Lady Solo—I remember what I used to play at as a child: he had asked me and I didn't know but I remember now—" Her voice dissolved into hysterical sobbing. Lady Solo shook her lightly, trying to shock her out of it, but it did no good. "My mother had a soup tureen, you know: a lovely china thing, and it had paintings on the side of little blue Dutch bridges and houses and I would stand there, and, and I would look at the little blue houses for hours, and pretend I was inside them, a little blue girl with a blue cat and dog, living in the painting on the soup tureen—that was what I played at and I forgot it, I forgot it all…" She leaned forward and put her head in her hands, weeping, and Lady Solo patted her on the back, trying to soothe her.

"Well, you shall be quite blue with cold by the time this is over, I expect," said Mrs. Candee, not unkindly. She handed Clarisse a handkerchief, and Clarisse took it gratefully, shivering and blowing her nose. "Now take a few deep breaths. There you go."

"I suppose I might as well tell you now," said Lady Solo, once Clarisse had calmed down. "I think it best if we call off the wedding."

"Of course," said Clarisse, fresh tears welling. "One cannot be married if one's groom is—is lost at sea."

"Yes," said Lady Solo, trying very hard to believe her son had survived. "Yes, there is that, but even if he had lived, my dear—he was hiding a dreadful secret from me for years, and he was of a mind to go and expose it."

"Expose it! Whatever for?" asked the young lady, shocked.

Lady Solo had meant to be frank. She had meant to tell her the truth. Looking at Clarisse's tear-stained little face now, however, she could not do it. "I am afraid he is a bit…mad," she said carefully. "It…a form of it runs in the family. I had thought him safe from it, but as you have seen, it has come out under pressure. His uncle, the Duke of Skywalker, is a little mad himself, as was the Duke's old father. I do not think you would wish to be wed to a—to a person of that temperament."

"Oh, that must be why he said so many odd things," Clarisse said, eyes wide. She wiped her cheeks. "And his preoccupation with his funny little drawings, and how he kept running about for Miss Nowak's sake. No, I understand completely: I think you should wire my mother once we are saved, and she will call it off quietly—if he lives, of course: if he is d-dead, why, I shall have to go into mourning—" and her face screwed up again with tears she tried to bravely hold back. "And I—I have always looked dreadfully sallow in black, so he had better be alive," she finished, her lower lip trembling.

* * *

Rachel Nowak curled up in the bottom of the boat with the children crowded around her as the oars swished through the freezing water. She had gone through the tale of Snow-white and Rose-red; and Aschenputtel, and the story of the Goose-girl at the well, and of the Beauty and the Beast. Her lips were numb and her mouth was dry, and there was no water in the boats at all: nobody had thought to stock them with provisions.

She could not, however, leave the children to cry in the cold: their poor mothers had all lost their husbands, and the last thing they needed was to be harangued by their cold and bored offspring. Alva had already fallen asleep, and Rey held her close against her chest, under the coat. Ebba was sitting quietly a few feet away, cradling little Erik close. The young stewardess (whose name, Rachel had found out, was Violet) was holding a baby on her lap, and listening too.

"Shall I tell you the story of the diamonds and the toads?" she offered. Oskar, yawning mightily, let loose with a string of Swedish to decipher her English.

"Yes! _Ja!_ " came the response, bright and curious eyes.

Rey bit her tongue to make her mouth wet, and swallowed. It was only for a little while longer, someone would come for them: they had to. "Once upon a time, there were two beautiful sisters, daughters to a very bad tempered mother. She did not like her youngest daughter at all, but favored her oldest daughter, who was very cruel and haughty, and the both of them mistreated the younger one terribly. One day, the younger was at the well and drew water, and an old woman appeared and asked for a drink of water. Of course the kind young girl did as she asked, and the old woman told her that she was a fairy, tasked with discovering the nature of mortals: and she was so pleased with how the sweet young girl had done as she asked that she gave her a gift! Every time she spoke, diamonds and flowers would fall from her mouth with every word…"

Diamonds and flowers. The solid weight of the ruby ring, somewhere beneath her life-belt and her skin, pressed down like a finger pointing at her heart. Rey found herself wishing that she had such a gift, but instead of diamonds and flowers, her words might turn into blankets and hot tea. What good were jewels when you were cold and hungry, and all alone?

She kept speaking, and noticed the little heads dropping off to sleep one by one, yawning and listening to her, not to the dreadful, far-away noise of a thousand souls perishing in the cold water. Rey shut her ears to it: she could not think of Ben out there now. "…but the oldest daughter was rude to the fairy, and told her she should get her own water from the well, and the fairy was insulted and gave her a gift, too: that every time she spoke, toads and snakes should fall from her mouth…"

* * *

Colonel Gracie rubbed his hands together and blew into them, his head bent forward. "Has anyone got the t-time?" he inquired.

Solo drew his watch from his pocket with clumsy, cold hands and peered at it in the dark. It had stopped at 2:15. "Mine's s-stopped," he said, teeth chattering. His hair was freezing: salt water tricking down his neck. The sound of dying men surrounded them: crying out, shouting, wailing. They were clustered all together on the hull of the floating lifeboat, and the promise of rescue seemed as far away as the Moon.

"Come now, hold on," said Lightoller, reaching down to help a man in the water cling on to the upended sides. "There's a g-good man."

"Obliged, s-s-s-sir," said the man in the water, shivering violently.

"God," said another man, called Jack Thayer, huddled on Solo's other side. "God, they s-sound like insects, all m-moaning and buzzing."

"We're g-going to be swamped," said the shivering Lightoller, voice tense as another man clung to the side of the overturned lifeboat, making it rock. "Christ. All right, m-men, get your hands in the water: we've got to p-paddle out of this."

Solo leaned down with Gracie and set to paddling. His hands were so cold that he could barely feel the icy water. They began to move, under Lightoller's commands, and slowly inched out of the mass of people.

"Good luck, b-boys," said a floating man through numb lips, still in his life-belt as they passed. "God bless you."

"S-someone must be coming for us," Solo managed, his lips feeling as if they were frozen solid. "Someone."

"I believe signals were s-sent out, sir," said Gracie. "All we can do is get clear and wait."

Solo reached up and tenderly felt his face with clumsy, cold hands. The gash was still there, and burning like fire: but the blood was coagulated and stiff in a sheet from just below his right eye to his right jaw, making it hard for him to talk. "Colonel, c-can you make out what's happened to my face?" he asked, turning to the older man.

Gracie peered at him. "Quite the w-war wound, Mr. Solo." His cold, shaking fingers turned Ben's face from side to side, trying to make out the extent of the damage in the starlight. "How did you g-get that?"

"I was in the w-water, and th-the funnel crashed down—I r-rolled over and—and something struck me, there was a snapping s-sound," Solo managed to get out.

"Ah," said Gracie, "th-the lines, I expect: snapped when the f-funnel c-crashed down. You must have got the end of one in the f-face. V-very lucky, sir. If you had been c-closer, it might have k-killed you."

Solo blew into his hands to attempt to warm them. God, but it was cold. More time passed. He could not tell how long they paddled out to open sea, but gradually the cries of the dying faded. He shuddered and pressed his hand to his bleeding face, trying to keep himself awake with the pain.

"Shall I t-tell you about the Battle of Chickamauga?" asked Colonel Gracie. "I have written a book on the subject, and consider myself quite the expert: you know my f-father was in the battle."

"I didn't know," said Lightoller politely. "Well, it might k-keep our blood up. Tell away."

"It was fought directly on the border of south-east Tennessee and north-west Georgia, on the 18th of September, 1863," began Gracie with gusto, rubbing his hands, "between the Army of the Cumberland on the Union side under Major General William Rosecrans and the Confederate Army of Tennessee under the command of General Braxton Bragg…" He went on, telling them with a scholar's excitement how Rosecrans had been misinformed and created a gap in his defensive line, enabling the Confederates to storm through with an eight-brigade assault and win the day, pushing the Union back to—

"Hey!" shouted one of the men crouched behind them. "Charles! Joughin! Here!"

Solo and Gracie turned and watched in astonishment as the man leaned over and drew another man from the sea: this one wearing a chef's coat and looking wet, but otherwise all right. "Isaac!" he said cheerfully, clinging to the side. "How are you?"

"I thought you had gone down!" said Isaac, shivering.

"Oh, no: I stood up on the stern as she sank and she dipped me into the water as easily as an elevator," said Charles, grinning up at Isaac. "My hair was hardly wetted, my dear Mr. Maynard."

"Can we pull him up?" Isaac asked, turning to Lightoller.

"No, but hold fast to him," said Lightoller, and Maynard got down on his stomach and held Mr. Joughin's hand tight as he clung to the lifeboat's edge.

"How long have you been in the water?" asked Gracie, peering over the side.

"I should think more than an hour, maybe two," said Joughin. "I blame it on the brandy. I hardly feel the cold at all, I confess."

"We all should have taken more brandy ourselves, then," said Solo, shivering and trying to smile. "The poor s-stewards were handing it out like water."

"Isn't that the truth," said Thayer. "Lightoller, sir, I think I see a lifeboat there."

"Ahoy!" shouted Lightoller, waving his arms, and a faint call came back as the boat drew nearer in the dark. "Have you room for one more?"

"Yes, sir, we do!" came the faint shout back, and Charles Joughin nodded at them.

"Well, gentlemen, good luck to you," he said, and struck off, swimming toward the lifeboat and disappearing into the darkness.

"Lucky dog," said Gracie enviously, shivering. "Brandy, indeed."

* * *

"Won't you let the women row?" asked Mrs. Brown. "We're freezing our fingers off in here. It'll keep us warm and give us something to do, at least."

Hichens glowered at her from the stern. "No. Stay in your bloody seat."

Clarisse shivered in her coat. "I wouldn't mind rowing—" she began.

"I said, stay in your seat, miss," he snapped, and she shrank back against Lady Solo.

Mrs. Brown got up anyway, the boat rocking, and took up a few oars in her arms, her jaw set firm. "Come on, Helen," she said to Mrs. Candee. "Might as well take one and row."

"Are you deaf?" snapped Hichens. "I _said_ stay in your seat!"

Mrs. Brown took no notice, passing an oar to Clarisse and another to Mrs. Bowerman, sitting along the side with her old mother. "Here," she said.

Hichens seemed to inflate like a furious frog. "Are you deaf as well as contrary? You don't command this boat! Christ Almighty, you bloody woman!" He tromped over the seat-slats and grabbed the oar in her hand, trying to yank it free.

Mrs. Brown stood her ground. "You stay put, Hichens, or I'll throw you overboard," she said in a steely tone that brooked no argument.

"Yes, you get back to the tiller where you belong, sir!" demanded Mrs. Bowerman.

"Yes, get back!" chimed in Mrs. Candee. "And keep quiet while you're at it!"

"Damn you!" Hichens snapped at Mrs. Brown, letting go the oar. "You can go to Hell, you god-damned piece of bloody shite—"

"You ought to be ashamed, Quartermaster," said Frank Fleet, their lookout, who was helping Peuchen row. "Don't you know you're talking to a lady?"

Hichens sank back into his position at the tiller and glowered at them all. "I believe he's had too much brandy," said Lady Solo. "In any case, Maggie, I'll row with Miss Harkness: carry on."

Mrs. Brown beamed. "Atta girl, Lady Elizabeth." She passed an oar up front to the bow. "Right. Ladies, sit up straight, get your feet planted, and use your whole body to row. We'll do it in shifts: that way nobody gets exhausted. Mrs. Candee, you and I will row on the starboard: Lady Elizabeth and Miss Mary can row on the port."

Lady Solo got the oar locked properly into its setting: she hadn't lifted anything so heavy in years, and thought privately she ought to have used the rowing machine in the gymnasium a bit more.

"Right. On my mark. Ready, and dip down, pull _back—_ "

Lady Solo pulled hard, Clarisse alongside her. They began to move, awkwardly at first, then smoothly as they got into a rhythm: up and down and pull back, up and down and pull back.

"Why, it's very invigorating," said Clarisse, rowing away. "Imagine, me rowing? Won't Mama be shocked!"

Lady Solo chuckled in spite of herself. "Indeed she shall, Clarisse. Indeed she shall."

* * *

All the children in Boat Sixteen had fallen asleep, and Rey sat dozing and shivering in the cold, her head resting on Violet's shoulder. Her hands were cold, tucked into the deep pockets, and her feet might as well have not existed for all she could feel them. Without the distraction of the little ones, her mind drifted to Lord Solo again: had he made it off the boat? He must have: there had been time between when she had been bundled into her seat and when the ship had plunged below the waves. He must have gotten safe onto a boat, and was perhaps drifting just out of sight in the dark. The thought gave her little comfort.

Someone must be coming for them. Hadn't they fired off rockets? A passing ship might have spied them, and was making haste right now to come for them. Perhaps they would have hot drinks and blankets and a warm room for everyone to lie down in. God, let them come quickly.

Her mind floated back to the moments in the stateroom with Lord Solo. She had not had time to collect herself and reflect on it yet, but now she had time, in the quiet boat, in the cold while all the children slept. How strange, that the room where they had bared themselves to each other, soul and body, was now gone, deep under the waters of the Atlantic. She thought of the fine furniture, the curtains, the fireplace and the couches and chairs and tables: all of them must be shattered to bits now, or drowned in cold seawater, and all Lady Solo and Clarisse's fine things along with them.

Rey reflected on Lord Solo. A dull ache between her legs reminded her of him more intimately than she would have liked at the moment, but she thought about it anyway: he had been more apprehensive than she, and cried out as if it had pained him—then he had lifted her in his arms and rolled her over, and she had been utterly helpless, clinging to him like one clings to a rock in the ocean.

The ocean. She shivered. He had breathed her name, soft and warm: she was breathing fog out into the freezing air now. He was out there, somewhere: the icy water and the boats all drifting, and the shore so far away.

Guilt sprang up within her: guilt for _not_ being sorry about her behavior or actions in the least, when everyone knew that sort of intimacy outside the bounds of a proper marriage was immoral. She should have felt horribly wicked, she ought to have wanted to go and find a priest at once, or pray very hard for forgiveness—or—or anything, but she felt none of that. She only felt contented when she thought of it: contented and perfectly at ease, and she wondered if he felt the same, wherever he was.

* * *

The night was moonless: as black as ink and as cold as the Arctic. Atop the overturned hull of their collapsible boat, the men who had scrambled atop it stood, or sat: shivering and waiting for the sun to rise, or for help to come.

It could be worse, Solo thought distantly, as he huddled under his coat. He might have been one of the poor souls in the water, clinging to the edges. One by one, they had let go, drifting away frozen and dead in their life-belts, succumbed to the cold. He felt as if he would never be warm again: his feet and hands were useless and there was nothing to do but wait, and hold out. He repeated it to himself like a motto, _wait and hold out, wait and hold out!_   What was it, in Latin? Maybe he should have it made into a coat of arms, and put it above the fireplace at Skywalker House. Solo tried to remember his Latin lessons, but his mind felt like molasses. _Wait and hold out._ He wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep like he had never wanted anything in his life. _Wait and hold out._ Just a wink, he thought, letting his eyes shut. Just a moment, and he'd be all right…

He was running about the gardens at Skywalker House with his favorite dog, and it was a beautifully warm summer afternoon. His father was smiling, walking to him from the door, telling him he should come inside: it was time for dinner and he shouldn't be late. _Yes_ , Ben said, reaching out to take his father's hand, _yes, I'll come, Father—_

Solo woke to Colonel Gracie shaking him. "Keep awake, Solo," he said sharply. "You fall asleep like this, and you'll never wake up again." That didn't seem so bad at all, and he tried to tell Gracie so, but his mouth would not move properly.

"Solo's in a bad way; I think it's the shock of the wound," said Thayer, looking at him. He sounded as if he was a very long way off, maybe inside a well. "Anyone see a lifeboat?"

"Not a one," said Lightoller. "Gracie, keep hold of him as long as he's alive."

 _As long as I'm alive,_ Solo thought to himself dreamily. Yes. Alive. He was alive now, but he might not be in a few hours. He had never wondered before what happened when someone died: did he possess a soul like Mama had always said? Would he leave his body and float above it, a ghost? Would nothing happen at all, and he only drift into a dreamless sleep from which there would be no waking? Perhaps he might visit Miss Nowak.

Rey. Her face floated before his eyes. Yes, if there was a God in Heaven, he might ask forgiveness, and perhaps God would let him say goodbye to her. It wouldn't need to be anything much: he might simply kiss her cheek, and all she would feel would be a gentle breeze—but she would know. Yes, she would know: she understood everything so well, even him. She would understand. It would be all right.

Solo let his head drop forward, and the pain and the cold and the voices of the other men faded away. He was only sleeping, deep and drowsy; and Father was calling him home from the golden garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Helen Churchill Candee was a super badass feminist, writer, suffragette, and world traveler. She lived another forty years and died at the age of 90.  
> -Gracie was actually in Europe in the first place to take a vacation from writing his book about the Battle of Chickamauga. After the sinking, he started immediately writing a book about the Titanic. He was also the first survivor of the sinking to die; he was a diabetic and the hypothermia complications he never really recovered from killed him less than eight months after the sinking. His last words were "We must get them all in the boats".  
> -No one to this day knows how Charles Joughin managed to survive in the below-freezing water for so long. He attributed it to the brandy, but alcohol actually increases one's chance of getting hypothermia.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her words died in her throat as she caught sight of one of the men sitting on the hull, leaning unsteadily on a portly older gentleman with a moustache. He did not seem quite conscious. His face was a mask of black, frozen blood in the dim light from his right cheekbone to his chin, and there was ice shining in his dark hair: his lips swollen and cracked and blue with cold, but she would know him from a hundred men, even if he had lost a limb, or been entirely cloaked in black: oh, God, she would know him!

After an eternity of slipping in and out of a fretful doze in the pitch blackness, the sky began to lighten, the palest gray to what must be the East. Rachel Nowak sat up, feeling as stiff and cold as a dead fish, and rubbed her hands together. "Violet, can you see any other boats?" she asked, looking around.

"Thank God for the daylight," said the stewardess, peering across the water. "At least we might get warmer in a few moments. I think I see a white—no—that is _ice_ —"

Rey looked in the same direction and her lips parted in astonishment. As the sun began to rise, but did not break above the horizon, they could see that they were in a great field of ice: enormous bergs loomed above the sea's surface like pyramids of solid ivory. The sunlight, just below the sea-line, took on that electric blue shade so often seen in the dawn and dusk of the North: it painted the world entirely in unearthly cobalt and made the faces of the living women beside her look purple with cold.

"My God," she whispered, and the sentiment was echoed in Swedish and Gaelic all round her.

"I see a boat!" shouted an Irish woman in the bow. "Right there: it's belly-up all wrong, can y' see?"

Rey got on her knees and looked hard. Yes: there was a boat, maybe a hundred yards out, floating wrong side up and tiny figures of men were standing on the hull, gray and black in the cold blue light. It was sitting very low, and the sea was becoming rough.

"Row to them!" shouted another woman. "Here, take an oar and row!"

"Up and about, ladies," said their quartermaster, passing out oars quickly. "Feet steady, pull evenly and try to do it at the same time, yes?"

Little Oskar, roused by the shouting, translated for the Swedish ladies, and everyone nodded in excitement: at last, something to do!

"Right! On my mark, port and starboard. Pull!" He leaned on the tiller, and the women began to pull for all they were worth, numb and cold fingers warming with the blood of movement. Rey found herself pulling for all she was worth, huffing and puffing and warming up nicely as she rowed with Violet. The poor men! They had room enough in their own lifeboat for plenty more. God help them, too; they had been standing all night! What a thought. She felt very lucky indeed, in spite of the cold wind in her face and the choppy ocean.

They drew nearer and an officer shouted out hoarsely, shivering with cold. "Ahoy! I'm Officer Lightoller: come alongside and be careful about it!"

They did as he said, and got alongside: Rey could see the man's face clearly. "Why, I remember you, sir," said Rey, shocked. "You were one of the officers who loaded the boats—"

Her words died in her throat as she caught sight of one of the men sitting on the hull, leaning unsteadily on a portly older gentleman with a moustache. He did not seem quite conscious. His face was a mask of black, frozen blood in the dim light from his right cheekbone to his chin, and there was ice shining in his dark hair: his lips swollen and cracked and blue with cold, but she would know him from a hundred men, even if he had lost a limb, or been entirely cloaked in black: oh, God, she would know him!

"You must take this poor soul on first," said the mustachioed gentleman, squatting and passing the other man toward them, "he is more exhausted than the rest of us, I think; and nearly died in the night—"

"Give him to me," said Rey, standing up immediately and reaching out her hands. They were shaking, whether with the cold or with shock she did not know or care. He was alive.

He was _alive._

They passed him over to her, as carefully as was possible in the choppy water, and she pulled Ben into her arms and staggered back, clinging to him as if she would never let go. There was no time for a tearful reunion or any of that sentimental nonsense: he was in a bad way and she must act on that first.

"Here, let's lay him down," said Violet quickly, and helped her lift him by the ankles. " _Lord_ , but he's heavy." Ebba assisted, and they got him settled down on the floor of the lifeboat between two benches, toward the stern. "You stay here with him and keep him warm," said Violet, immediately taking charge. "We'll take the others."

Rey turned her attention to Ben. He was breathing shallowly, curled on his side and shaking as if he couldn't help it. He did not seem to know she was there at all. "Your coat is soaked," she said. "We must get you out of it at once. Come along." It was frozen in places, and very heavy: she pushed it off his shoulders as quickly as she could and pulled it off his stiff arms. Rey threw the coat at his feet: let it sit down there. He mumbled something through nerveless, swollen lips, but did not open his eyes.

She knew the method of keeping someone from freezing to death: get them out of wet clothes and tuck them up with a hot-water bottle and a cup of something steaming. Seeing as how there was neither water-bottle nor tea on board, she settled for the next best thing. Little Erik, sleepy and blinking, went to his chest: a three-year old named Siobhan was put quickly at his back, wrapped in her blankets like a mummy and emanating heat like a coal. Rey rubbed his arms briskly and took off her fur coat, covering him in it as much as she could. Her own coat was dry by now, and it was warm enough.

Her attention went to the dreadful-looking blood on his face next. "Has anyone got a handkerchief?" she asked loudly, turning about. The other men were climbing into the boat and wrapping up in offered shawls and blankets.

"Here," said Violet abstractedly, leaning over the seats, "take mine—" and she turned away back to assist Lightoller into the boat.

Rey reached over the side and dipped the hanky into the ocean. It would be a miserable business, but she was not sure how bad the wound was, or how deep it went—and at any rate she ought to get the blood off his face. She wrung it out, knelt, and began to dab it about the edges of the crusted, frozen mass on his face, from the bridge of his nose to his right jawline. His eye seemed all right, but there was so much dried blood she was not sure.

"Ungh," said Erik, stirring.

"Shh," said Rey. "Go back to sleep."

"Mama," said Erik insistently, blinking at her as if it was all her fault.

"Mama is just there, so don't you start a fuss or I shall be very put out," said Rey, tucking his wrappings around him tighter. He peeped out from the edge of the coat like a little Inuit baby. "I ought to strap you to a board like the Indians do," she told him, turning her attention back to Ben's face. The blood was softening, coming away in flakes and chunks, and staining Violet's handkerchief red. She dipped it over the side again and pressed the whole soaking thing to his cheek.

Ben's eyes opened and he let out a groan of pain, his hand flying up to pluck at his face. "No—" he rasped, voice gone hoarse and weak. "No—please—"

"Stop that," said Rey, lifting the hanky off his face. The blood was coming away, staining his cheek scarlet. "It's all right."

His eye found her and he went very still for a moment. "I'm dead," he said. "Aren't I?"

"You most certainly are not," Rey said, tears coming to her eyes in spite of her determination. "I should think Heaven might be a good deal warmer." She wiped away the rest of the blood and stroked his frozen hair back from his brow. The gash down his face was deep and about the width of her thumb at the widest part, but it had stopped bleeding, and his right eye was not damaged.

"Rey," he whispered, and began to shake violently, shivering. "R-Rey—"

She turned to Violet. "I have got to keep him warm," she said desperately. "Will you look out for the children?"

"Yes, of course," said Violet, picking up Erik. Siobhan was still sound asleep at Ben's back, a perfect little imitation hot-water bottle.  "Come, we will find Mama."

Rey wrapped her coat tight and lay down in the bottom of the boat beside him, spreading the fur coat over both of them and clutching him tightly, her hands pressed to his bare and freezing chest. "It'll be all right," she said, rubbing him briskly everywhere she could reach. "I'm here. I'm here, and you don't have to worry about a thing. I'm here."

"M-my father—" Ben was trembling so hard he could barely speak. "F-father." His voice was coming in whimpers, little gasps for air escaping his blue lips.

Rey did not know what to say. "Yes? Your father?"

The sun broke over the horizon and bathed them all in golden light, breaking the dazzling ice around their boat into a million sparks of diamond: glittering like a forbidden pile of treasures in the midst of the sea. In its light, Rey could see that Solo's eyes were not dark brown, as she had thought, but instead a peculiar greeny-gold with a dark chestnut ring about the pupil: his untouched left eye was open wide and looking at her.

"I s-shot him," came the pitiful little voice, and Rey froze, her hands still on his chest.

"Of course you didn't," she said automatically. "Whatever can you mean? You said it was a hunting accident—why, you must be out of your mind with the cold—"

"Rey," he said again, and she saw to her horror that he was crying, tears trickling across the bridge of his nose as he lay on his side. "I d-did. Th-the rifle—I th-thought—the bush, a b-bird—so f-fast, but he had s-s-stepped out and I pulled the t-trigger and—and it all caught him in the chest, b-buckshot—"

"Shh," Rey said, unable to find another thing to say. "Hush, now. It's all right." Somewhere deep inside, she thought that in any other condition, had she not already been shocked by the great tragedy she had survived, and Mackenzie's death, and poor old Mrs. Hansen, and the rest—she might have been thrown into a dreadful state at this revelation, but in the current situation, it seemed entirely meaningless. He might as well have told her he had once broken his arm: a terrible story, but one of no consequence in their present straits. There would be time to consider it later.

He reached up his cold hands and clumsily pressed them to her face, still weeping. His fingers felt like ice: like a corpse. She pressed his right hand close, her fingers trying in vain to cover the expanse of the back of his hand. "It's all right," she said again. "You must just get warm."

"Rey," he said again, his voice gone weak. "I th-think I did it—on p-purpose." His eyes drifted shut.

She could not thrust that off to consider later. Rey clutched him to her tightly, and shut her eyes. She did not hear Violet Jessop crying out in delight at the sight of an approaching ship, far off on the horizon, or the quartermaster ordering the able-bodied to take up oars and row toward the vessel:  her heart had gone as cold as the water around them, and she clung to the half-dead man in her arms as if she would never let him go.

* * *

"Oh, thank God," said Frank Fleet, peering out over the water. "I see another lifeboat out there, maybe a hundred yards off."

"We should tie up with 'em," said Margaret Brown. "Unless you have another opinion, Hichens."

The sullen quartermaster glared at her, but did not dare to raise a word of contention. "As you wish, Mrs. Brown," he said, and a few of the other woman smiled at each other behind their hands.

Lady Solo shook Mary Clarisse, who had fallen asleep and was using her shoulder as a pillow. "Wake up, Clarisse," she said quickly.

The young woman stirred and groaned. "What is it? Oh, it's so cold. I wish you'd let me sleep. Has a ship come to rescue us?"

"Not as of yet," said Lady Solo, "but there is another lifeboat there, and we are going to need all the rowers we can." She lifted the heavy thing, ignoring the ache in her arms caused by exercise after long disuse, and set it into the notch. "Come now, pull away."

Clarisse pouted and moaned a little, but got her feet into position and pulled back when Hichens shouted out for them to. "Oh, _ouch_ , my back aches!" she complained.

"Yes, that is what happens when one rows after one has not rowed," said Lady Solo acidly. "Keep in time, please."

She looked down to make sure her son's folio was safe beside her on the seat, as she had done a hundred times that night, and set her face toward the distant boat on the horizon, her arms and legs moving as her mind traveled very far away. She began to allow herself to think about Ben.

Her only son and heir had been born after nearly nineteen hours of labor, on a warm late August day in 1882, and her dear Han had paced back and forth outside the room all day and night, drinking whisky like a fish and smoking his pipe as if he was a locomotive. Lady Solo could well remember the outraged shouting and bellowing from behind the heavy oak doors as he threatened to kick down the door if he heard his wife scream again, and how she had tried to hold it back as the pains had struck again for his sake, even though the midwife had been shouting for her to _push, push!_ It had not worked at all, and he had come charging in like the cavalry precisely as she had let out a yell of primal fury and John Benjamin Solo had slithered out into the world, pink and screaming, from between his mother's legs in a flood of water and blood.

Han had stopped short in astonishment and stepped sideways, and Lady Solo had laughed at him in both relief and hysterical amusement at the punch-drunk look on his face as her midwife had picked up their wailing infant and cut the cord, bathing him as quick as she could as another midwife helped her change out of her soiled and soaked nightgown into a clean and dry one. _Well, what did you think happened? The stork certainly doesn't fly into my window_ , Lady Solo had said, exhausted, and Han had gone to her side at once and told her, _I didn't know you had to work so hard at it, my dear, and if we have another I won't storm and shout like a nor'easter—I'll let you do your work._

She had squeezed his hand and the midwife had brought their son to them, and laid him into his mother's arms, and Han had peered down and said, _my God, he has my old dad's ears, sure as I'm born_ , but she had barely heard: staring into the face of her child like he was the only thing in the room. The tiny, perfect, crumpled ugly little face of a newborn looked up at her: red skin, kittenish cries subsiding to a little snuffling sound, tiny triangular mouth half-open, eyes blinking sullenly. They had been slaty-blue, she remembered: the color of a stormy June sky.

She had loved him more than anything in the world, and she had hated to leave him at home while she went to London for the social season that winter, but everyone knew the city was simply dreadful for babies and the country was much healthier. So she and Han had departed Skywalker House, leaving little five-month-old Ben, as they had already taken to calling him, in the care of his nursemaids, a wet-nurse, and the rest of the household. She had wept bitterly as the carriage had jolted away, and Han had held her hand until they were out of sight of the great white house.

Lady Solo had returned the next August to find a brown-eyed boy who very nearly was able to walk on his own, and she had wept again privately for missing all the precious moments, told to her by the eager and sympathetic nurses and maids: his first word had been _dog_ , he had managed to fall down a flight of stairs unharmed, he had learned to crawl and immediately set about the house like a dervish. Worst of all, he had not known her in the slightest, and cringed away into the shoulder of his nurse when she had reached for him.

He had immediately taken a liking to Han, however: this tall and smiling stranger with a faded blue coat was interesting and mysterious, and the pair of them had immediately become inseparable, cavorting about the garden and the grounds together, Ben sitting on Han's shoulders shrieking in glee as they chased the dogs and the geese and the chickens. Lady Solo sat in her drawing room watching them with no small amount of parental envy. Of course in a few weeks he came round to her, asking her in his sweet baby-talk to read him stories in the nursery, but his favorite playmate had remained Han.

As he had gotten older, he had grown more serious and less exuberant. She could still remember him at the age of three or four, sitting in the garden in his frock and having a long conversation with himself, or marching solemnly about with a stick. _What sort of man will you become?_ she had wondered many times, looking out at his grave, bowed head with its dark, baby-soft curls.

They had breeched him at six and a half, just in time for Han to return from a voyage, and his delight at receiving his first pair of trousers was palpable. He had put on his fine new set of clothes and rushed to meet his father at the gate when he arrived home, and Han had pretended that he did not know this boy who greeted him: why, he had left a little baby of six behind, and here was a fine young man of nearly seven!

Upstairs, Lady Solo had pressed her hand to the cast-off white frock for only a moment, then collected herself and given orders for all his baby things to be put away.

They had dismissed his governess and sent him off to Westminster soon after that, and he had returned for his holiday a changed young boy: no longer speaking with the American accent his father used, but affecting instead a non-rhotic inflection, which Lady Solo had tried in vain to get him to use as a younger child, but upon finding it presenting itself now, felt very much discomfited. _Good mo-ning, Mama Leia,_ he had said, and his father had laughed and told him, _you're at home now, Ben; go on and speak how you want to_.

He had gotten older, and become even more serious and solemn, and around thirteen that famous scourge of childhood, adolescence, had come for him as it comes for all, and turned him into a sullen and angry young man who came home from school terms and shouted at the maids for imagined slights, kicked the gravel in the yards, ran off into the orchard and stayed there alone till dinner-time, and locked himself in his bedroom. He was bullied at school terribly for his ears, his nose (which had not allowed his face to catch up to it yet, if indeed it would _ever_ catch up), his moles, his height. Han, having never attended any sort of higher education establishment, was at a loss for how to assist his son with matters of school peers. Lady Solo would have tried to console him, but he wanted nothing to do with his mother at all. She was assured by her maids that it was natural for a young man of his age to shun the company of his parents, but that did not comfort her.

After all, perhaps it was best he did not want to speak to her, for Han and Ben began to fight once he turned fifteen or sixteen, and the pair of them had tempers that were as blustering and dreadful as hurricanes. Ben resented his father sending him away to school, and Han was angry that his son was so ungrateful as to spit on a good education—which he himself had never had, and their rows were nearly enough to blow the house down. Lady Solo had written to her brother and asked him to come visit, and it seemed to help for a time: the Duke of Skywalker with his unconventional bearded face and twinkling eyes gauging Ben across the dinner table was enough to pacify the next Duke, and there were many talks about his responsibility to the family and how he must get a good education so as to make sure his estate was run properly.

Ben had taken it to heart. That was how she found him poring over the household ledgers, one evening when he was seventeen, and his wide eyes found hers as she had walked in, and he had asked, _Why does Father need twenty pounds every time you go to London, Mama Leia?_

Lady Solo had felt ice settle in her heart. She had not known that Han was taking such sums from the accounts, and if she had, she would have overlooked it anyway: she felt that her son was involving himself in matters that did not concern him, and somewhere deep within she had known that he was right to bring the matter to her attention, but a great defensive anger had suddenly boiled up within her—for Han was not the only one Ben had inherited a great temper from. She had snapped at him: he had shut the book with a face like stone and left the room, and she had sank into the seat and wept.

He had not come back that year for holiday. He wrote one tersely-worded letter informing them he was staying at their townhouse in London for the summer, and that he would come home for Christmas.

From then on they had had a distant relationship: Ben stayed at Queen's End when they were at Skywalker House, and at Skywalker House when they were at Queen's End for engagements. They did not see much of each other for the next several years, nearly a decade, until Han had finally put his foot down and written Ben to come home for the autumn: he wanted to spend time with his son man-to-man, and they might go hunting in the woods if he liked.

And that—Lady Solo abruptly brought herself to the present as Mrs. Brown called out for a change of rowers. That had been the autumn her dear Han had died, and now her son was like as not dead too, drowned beneath the cold Atlantic his father had so loved to sail on. _It is my fault_ , she thought despondently, catching up her son's folio in her hands almost automatically. _It is my fault for sending him to school so young, for leaving him alone so soon, for losing my temper when he asked about the money_. _If I had done better, we would not have been parted, and Han would not have died, and we would not be here._

Lady Solo did not want to think about her son's confession to her in their stateroom less than six hours ago. She opened the folio instead, and her eyes fell on delicately drawn machines, diagrams of wings and wheels and levers and pistons. Tears filled her eyes: her son had truly had a gift for engineering, and she had never thought to give his ideas a second look. She turned the pages, blinking hard, and looked at all the things he had set down on paper until she turned one near the back and came to a finely done image of a man's unclothed body: seated with one arm up above his head. His face was in shadow, but Lady Solo would have known the body without the face anywhere: that particular pattern of moles across the chest she had seen a thousand times as she oversaw the laughing nurses give her squalling child a bath.

She turned the page and came face-to-face with a softly rendered portrait of herself: perhaps thirty-five years old, smiling gently, her night-robe closed to the neck. It was done so well that Lady Solo's hand went to her throat, her fingers remembering the ribbons that had closed it as if she had only just let go of them—but she had not had that robe for years: it had been sold off to pay Han's debts. She quickly turned the paper over and smiled to see the next few drawings: why, those were the horses on the estate grounds, so easily recognizable that she could remember the names of each and which animal they belonged to—that one with the blaze on the nose was Fighter, that sweet-tempered mare with the blotch on her nose was surely Falcon, Han's favorite mount, named after one of his ships; oh, and that black stallion with the four white hocks and star between his eyes was Force, who Ben had tried to ride at the age of eight and fallen off after the poor animal had spooked and bolted, and Han had thrashed him for nearly getting himself killed. And there were the dogs! Lady Solo let her hand trace the shaggy outlines: that was unmistakably Chewie, Han's favorite mongrel that he had brought with him when they married. Ben had loved that dog more than any of the others—he'd ridden the hound like a horse until he was five, and Han had sworn that Chewie could understand human speech. He used to howl at Chewie, and Ben would bury his chubby little fists in the dog's fur and howl in agreement, and Chewie would dutifully yowl back, until Lady Solo said that it sounded like a pack of wolves coming down on them. The poor animal had died, oh, it must be ten years ago almost: he was buried in the garden under the shady oak he had loved to lie down beneath on warm days.

Lady Solo turned the pages again, half-lost in memory, and was jostled directly out of her reverie by another drawing of her son, this time standing from the side, twisted at the waist like a Grecian statue. Well—she appreciated art as much as anyone of her status, but knowing that one was looking at one's grown son was a little strange, so she turned the page again, and the very last drawing was—

Oh.

A young woman stood, mimicking perfectly the pose and mood of _La Circassienne,_ her face turned to the right and her arms positioned as gracefully as a swan. She was entirely nude, her body a lithe, healthy, strong thing, narrow-hipped and small-breasted, the lines of muscle gently incised in her thighs and shoulders. The face, however, was unmistakably that of Miss Rachel Maria Nowak, and Lady Solo simply sat, staring in astonishment as her mind wheeled over and over.

Her first impulse was to fling the thing into the sea. She could not do that, however; this may well have been the last thing her son had ever drawn, and if Miss Nowak had died in the wreck, it was all that remained of the young _ballerine_ as well. Lady Solo looked at it again. There was nothing lewd in the execution at all: it was simple and straightforward, and the woman was looking down modestly, as if being seen by someone she was shy of. Had her son coerced the girl into standing for him? Impossible: Ben had never shown any such behavior toward women at all.

Lady Solo suddenly remembered the wreck of his room, and it all fell into place at once: the broken headboard, the bedclothes strewn about, the missing ruby ring which he had sworn Clarisse should never have. _Oh, God,_ she thought bleakly, _he asked her to wed him—_

"Ahoy!" came a shout, and she looked up, slamming the folio shut with surprise as she was jolted out of her thoughts. "Come alongside!" The boat was full of steerage women and children, and their sleepy, cold heads peeped up from their wrappings like hens in a coop. Lady Solo felt a shock of pity at the sight: the poor women, the poor babes. There were shivering officers and men among them too, and a fair few people lying down in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in coats and shivering madly.

"Shall we tether up?" called Hichens, pulling out a rope already.

"Aye, sir, go on: there's a ship on the horizon, and we mean to make for it." The quartermaster of the other boat gave orders, translated by a boy of maybe six, and they got within a few feet of each other, beginning to row together, pulling for the distant liner.

So they passed the morning, with neither Rey Nowak nor Lady Solo knowing that the other was only ten feet away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Violet Jessop was a real person and she was the GOAT. She was an Irish-Argentine nurse and stewardess who survived all three incidents on all three White Star sister ships (Olympic, Titanic and Britannic) in 1911, 1912, and 1916 respectively, and kept working for cruise/ocean liner companies until she retired in 1950.  
> -"Breeching" refers to the practice of dressing a young boy in pants for the first time. Before the early 20th century, baby boys and girls in Western society were all dressed pretty much the same, in frocks, until they had gotten the dexterity to be able to undo and do the complicated fastenings on trousers (which definitely helped with toilet training!) about the age of six or seven. If you google "FDR baby" you'll be able to see a wonderful example of this: the 32nd president of the United States, sporting adorable ringlets and a white dress, age 2, 1884.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She felt as if she was torn between two worlds, like a character from a fairy-tale. How might hers go, if one was to tell it to the children in the boat? _Once there lived a girl, and she had a terrible choice; to stay in the world she was born in, and be hungry and poor—or accept a fine lord, who asked her hand, but he had killed his father, and that was a dreadful sin against God. She did not know what to do, or where to go, and the story was not over yet…_

It was nearly eight in the morning by the time Boat Sixteen and Boat Six drew up to the RMS _Carpathia._ The occupants of both boats had been in them for over seven hours, and there was no one gladder to see the mighty sides of the liner than they. Mrs. Brown ordered the other boat to go first: they had hardly any children and nobody with the exception of Mrs. Candee was injured.

"Oh, thank heavens, it's a Cunard," said Clarisse.

"We shall lower slings for the injured!" shouted an officer from above as rope ladders came tumbling down the side.

"There are children in this boat!" shouted Lightoller.

"We'll lower mail sacks, then!" came the answer from above.

Clarisse looked shocked. "Surely they can't expect us to _climb_ those ladders," she said. "Why, it's immodest—"

Lady Solo, having at last lost her temper entirely, shook the girl. "You will climb up that ladder when your turn comes, Miss Harkness," she said, "or you can sit in the boat until Judgement Day. And no, you will not cry for a sling: there are men in that other boat who need them."

Clarisse opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, and nodded, eyes wide.

The process took some time, but child after child was lifted up in mail sacks, squealing in excitement as they passed women climbing up the ladders. A sling was lowered and several men were hoisted up, including one unfortunate-looking fellow with a terrible wound to his face: Lady Solo wondered what on earth he had done to himself. A figure in a fur coat was climbing up the ladder, and Lady Solo jolted in shock: could it be? She could not cry out: what if she was mistaken? But who else would have a fur coat?

She kept her eyes planted on the figure until she reached the top and turned to look over the side, helped by officers: no, it was not Miss Nowak after all, but a pretty stewardess in her uniform. Lady Solo's heart sank.

The boat was emptied and hauled off, and then it was their turn. Mrs. Brown got a foot onto the ladder and turned to address them. "Now, ladies, it's quite simple," she said. "You just go hand over hand and kick your skirt out, and never take your two hands off the ladder." She turned back and shouted up to the side. "We need one sling: a lady has a broken ankle!"

Clarisse, when it came to be her turn, clung to the ladder as if it was a tree, trembling, and managed one step before nearly slipping on her own skirt and flying into hysterics. Two officers dragged her up on the ladder, and another man lowered a second for the rest of the boat, and in this fashion Lady Solo found herself at last standing on the deck of a solid ship again, and silently thanked God.

* * *

Rachel Nowak wandered the steerage dining room. Still a bit shaken, she clutched a hot cup of coffee in one hand and held her blanket shut with the other, drifting from table to table like a phantom haunting the world of the living. They had separated her from Ben, and taken him at once to the sickbay to see a doctor, so she had no one to speak to at all, not even Ebba, who was still out on the deck, searching the ocean in vain for any sign of her beloved Olaf.

She felt as if she was torn between two worlds, like a character from a fairy-tale. How might hers go, if one was to tell it to the children in the boat? _Once there lived a girl, and she had a terrible choice; to stay in the world she was born in, and be hungry and poor—or accept a fine lord, who asked her hand, but he had killed his father, and that was a dreadful sin against God. She did not know what to do, or where to go, and the story was not over yet…_

"Rey!" came a cry from the corner, "Rey Nowak, my famous ballerina!" and Ilsa Hansen, sobbing her eyes out, came hurtling at her and caught her up in a hug so tight and warm that Rey felt the ice at her core melt, just a little. "Oh, you are alive," Ilsa cried, and Rey began to weep, shaking as if she was going to pieces.

Ilsa guided her over to a chair and made her sit down. "Lord Solo got you on a boat, then?" she asked, blue eyes wide.

"Yes," said Rey between her tears, "yes, he did, but oh, so much happened, Ilsa, you won't believe a word," and she told her everything that had happened from the time Lord Solo had come for her and put her into a boat to the time she had gotten aboard the _Carpathia_ , and Ilsa listened with huge eyes. "And oh, Ilsa, I am so sorry about your mother."

"It—it is all right," said Ilsa bravely, wiping her eyes. "Lord Solo dragged me out of steerage—if it was not for him I would have died, too. He—why, he is a hero, and should get a cup or a medal or—something. But—oh, my poor _mamma_ ," she said tremulously, and began to cry in earnest, leaning on Rey's shoulder as Rey patted her on the head gently and held her close.

* * *

Lord Solo opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back and staring at a white ceiling, his face stinging like fire. "Christ," he rasped, and brought his hand up.

"Easy there," said a kindly-looking doctor. "You've had quite the ordeal. Tea?"

"What's on my face?" he demanded, wincing.

"Antiseptic. Wound's fairly clean, but you'll have a nasty scar." The doctor made a few notes on a clipboard. "Now, can you give me your name and the class you traveled on the _Titanic_?"

Solo hesitated. Memory was rushing back in fragments: shivering in the cold, the dark: Rey's tear-filled eyes, his frozen lips letting out his worst secret—God, had he _told_ her? What had she said? What had she done? He could not remember. Panic began to set in, squeezing his chest like a fist—if she was not here with him, perhaps she had decided that his act of patricide was too much, and gone away. He could not remember being brought to this place at all. "Where am I?" he asked.

"On the RMS _Carpathia_ , in her sickbay. You needn't worry, we shall take good care of you." The doctor smiled benevolently. "You're very lucky; you won't need a single amputation due to frostbite…" He continued speaking in his friendly, dry bedside-manner voice, and Solo's mind swung around back to Miss Nowak with frightening speed. So they had been rescued, and she was not here with him: the next course of action was, then, to get out of here as quickly as he could and seek her out, wherever she was. He noticed belatedly that the doctor was silent and giving him a quizzical look—he must have asked him his name again.

"I’m Lord John Benjamin Solo," he said with some difficulty, "and I was traveling first-class with my mother, Lady Solo." _And a dreadful creature called Mary Clarisse,_ he added privately, _with the temperament of a cat and the sense of a cow._ The stinging in his face was fading, and an orderly stepped forward to inspect him and put a clean linen pad on his cheek, binding it in place with a strip that went under his chin and over his head. He felt a strange kindred sympathy for Jacob Marley, with the exception, of course, of not having died.

"We shall get you re-united straightaway, then," said the doctor, and shook his hand before letting him stand up and put on a coat—his coat, in fact, none the worse for wear. Solo realized he was still in his shirtsleeves, and just after that realized that he owned nothing at all but the shirt on his back and his coat; trousers and damp socks and shoes. He could have been anyone at all—a steerage passenger, a second-class working gentleman: just another poor soul dredged from the icy waters and brought aboard. He felt as if a great opportunity had slipped past his fingers, and he had not noticed until it was too late.

Solo followed the orderly to an officer, and followed the officer to the first-class dining room, which had been hastily converted into a lounge. People, mostly women still in their night-things or cardigans, sat looking stunned in chairs, wrapped in blankets and sipping hot coffee from fine china cups. He felt as if he could easily curl into a corner and sleep for a week, but a cry went up, and he looked forward to see his mother, all her proper and severe façade crumbled into an expression of anguish as she lurched out of her chair and made directly for him.

"Ben—oh, _Ben_ , it is really you—"

"Yes, Mama, it's me," he said, choking with sudden emotion, and the orderly politely looked away as Lady Solo embraced him, weeping as she had not wept since his father had died, her head pressed to his breast. She only came to half-way up his torso, after all. "It's me," he kept saying, holding her tightly. "I'm all right."

Lady Solo let him go and stepped back, still holding him at arm's length as she dabbed her tears away. "Your poor face, Ben; what happened?"

"Nasty piece of work, courtesy of the tethering lines," he explained, self-consciously touching his thick bandage. "My eye is unharmed, and I shall only have a great scar, they said. Like a pirate. Where is Clarisse?"

Lady Solo sighed and turned to the orderly, who was noting down their names. "Thank you, sir," she said wearily. He touched his cap and moved away, and she turned back to Ben. "Miss Harkness is sleeping in a dormitory. I have sent a telegram already to her mother in New York, stating that due to many factors I believe it would be best if the wedding was to be called off at once, quietly. I have told Miss Harkness that you grapple with a family madness: she was not inclined to be inquisitive."

Relief flooded Lord Solo. He slumped down in a seat and put his hand to his head. "Thank God," he said distantly.

"And your—your little companion, was she saved?" Lady Solo looked sympathetic as she sat down in the chair beside him.

"I think so," Ben said. "At least, I know we were in the same boat, but I do not remember being brought aboard at all, or seeing her after I was put into her lifeboat."

"You have—you harbor very great strength of feeling toward her, do you not?" asked Lady Solo.

"Yes, Mama," he admitted. "But I—I remember telling her the thing I told you, and I do not know if she now reciprocates. I thought she might not mind, but—but I see I have been a fool."

"We have all been very great fools," said Lady Solo after a moment. "Well, you might go to steerage and see if she is to be found there, as a first step. After that, we shall decide what we shall do."

* * *

Rachel Nowak sat alone in her chair, gulping down hot coffee. Ilsa had left to go sleep, but Rey was far too preoccupied to do such a thing.

 _I think I did it on purpose_ , he had said, and she had done nothing but hold him tight, praying. Accidental patricide was one thing: a mistake, a horrible mistake—purposely killing one's father was another matter entirely. Hadn't he said his father had left them in debt? _A fool who gambled all the family money away_ , or something like it. She had not pressed him to ask, as it had seemed rude at the time. Now she wished she had asked.

 _It is not as if I am ruined, anyway,_ she thought to herself. One could only be ruined if one was inclined to marry. She would simply never take a husband, and go on dancing for as long as she could, and perhaps open a school for young ladies to learn to dance in. She would have to be clever with her money, of course, but it could be done. And there was also the matter of the ruby. Her slender fingers went to her breast, where the ring still rested on its chain: it was likely worth something outside the value ascribed to it as a family heirloom—perhaps she might have it appraised…

No, what was she thinking? Rey took her hand away at once. Of course she could not march into a jeweler's with such a stone, in her shabby clothes: she would be arrested for theft on the spot and hauled off to whatever prison awaited jewel thieves in America. It was not honest anyway: he had given it to her in good faith as an engagement present, and selling one's engagement ring was simply not done. She was poor, but even she would not stoop to that yet. She still had her pride.

Rey set her chin unconsciously in a patient little expression. She would wait for him to come to her, as she could not get through the barrier to first-class on this ship, and they would talk privately, and—and after that perhaps everything would be all right.

* * *

"Sorry, sir," said the apologetic steward in front of the locked gate leading down to steerage. "Can't allow it."

Lord Solo was rapidly losing his patience. "I am looking for my valet, and for a—a maid. They may have been put into steerage on accident."

"American immigration law states I can't let you down there for hygienic reasons, sir," said the steward. "It's to prevent the spread of infectious diseases."

 _Bloody hell!_ Solo clenched his hands into fists, trying to keep his voice even. "When, then, do you suggest I might look for my party?"

"Steerage shall be processed separately once we disembark," the steward said. "After that you might look for them."

"Where will we be disembarking?" Solo asked, suddenly realizing he had had no thought for that at all.

"New York, sir. Mr. Ismay and Captain Rostrom have consulted and only just decided. Now, I must ask you to return to the dining room."

Solo considered. He could easily overpower the man, who was a head shorter than him and a good thirty or forty pounds lighter—but he was injured, and the man was not, and if he caused a scene it would do nobody any good. He would, then, simply have to track down Miss Nowak once they reached New York. He would wait outside Ellis Island if he had to, all day every day, until he found her. "Very well," he found himself saying, and turned around, walking away from the gate.

* * *

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, Rey Nowak watched the sea from the window by her table. A steward brought stew and bread, but she did not touch it, only looked out over the water and ignored her hunger pains.

He had not come. Perhaps he was hurt more badly than she had thought, or perhaps he had gotten caught up in his reunion with his lady mother, or—or perhaps—

No, she did not want to think about any other _perhaps_. She valiantly held off on thinking about it at all, but as the sun touched the sea and began to sink, painting the sky in brilliant swathes of orange and scarlet, Rey yielded.

_What if he had changed his mind and decided he did not love her after all?_

No, she thought, clutching the edge of the table. No, that was impossible, surely. He had looked up at her with such adoration, such love—he had said _I love you_ , he had held her in his arms—of course he had not changed his mind. She was a fool to think so.

Rey turned and ate the cold stew and bread, banishing any further thought of it from her mind. In the morning she would try to go and find him, and all would be well again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -If you understand the Jacob Marley reference you get a gold star.  
> -The separation of steerage and first class passengers was very much due to classist American immigration laws concerning the spread of disease, and part of the reason so many third-class passengers died in the sinking, along with the language barrier and the total mismanagement of the crisis.  
> -Do you think Lord Solo and Rey are gonna find each other? WHAT WILL HAPPEN??


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated, she turned away, and quickly went back inside. It was chilly on the promenade anyway, and she didn't mean to catch her death of cold. It was all right: Lord Solo could surely get down to steerage any time he liked, for he was a lord—surely they would not refuse him—and he would find her as soon as he was able, and everything would be all right again.
> 
> He did not come.
> 
> She waited all day again, and still he did not come.

The next morning dawned cold and grey, fog obscuring any view that Rachel might have had out the porthole beside her dormitory bed. She had climbed into the bed by Ilsa the evening before, as the girl had no one left in the whole world but her friend, and they woke early after their long night's rest.

"I am going to try to find Lord Solo," said Rey, wrapping up in her shabby coat.

"Good luck," said Ilsa, pulling on her shoes. "I am going to find breakfast, and I shall save you something if you're late."

Rey made her way out of the dormitory, which was nothing more than a converted general room with cots, and made her way up to the deck, all the way to the gate leading up to the first-class promenade. A steward stood there in his overcoat with the collar turned up, and she didn't blame him: it was chilly this morning, and wet. "Good morning, sir," she began, "may I—"

"You can't go into first class, miss," he said shortly. "It's the law. I'm sorry."

She blinked in surprise. "The law?"

"Immigration law, miss. For the health of the passengers, you must be kept in your separate areas." He sniffed and blew his nose with his handkerchief.

"But—but all of steerage passed health inspections when we boarded in Southampton," Rey protested.

"I'm sorry, miss. I can't let you pass."

Frustrated, she turned away, and quickly went back inside. It was chilly on the promenade anyway, and she didn't mean to catch her death of cold. It was all right: Lord Solo could surely get down to steerage any time he liked, for he was a lord—surely they would not refuse him—and he would find her as soon as he was able, and everything would be all right again.

He did not come.

She waited all day again, and still he did not come.

* * *

It was two more days before the _Carpathia_ arrived in New York, amidst drizzling rain and the fading evening light. The crush of people waiting on the docks was a sight to behold: everyone in the city had seemingly turned out to gape and gawk at the survivors of the _Titanic_ being brought to shore safe and sound.

"I heard there's going to be an inquiry," said Ilsa as she sat by Rey's side waiting in the Ellis Island Immigrant Hospital later that night. They had been ferried over and already passed their physical examinations, and now awaited another round of questioning in front of the Immigration Inspectors with the manifest number of the _Titanic_ pinned to their coats.

"I can't imagine what they think they'll find out," said Rey. She thought enviously of Miss Mary Clarisse, likely floating away in a motorcar without a single lice inspection or buttonhook to the eyes, and the thought of Miss Mary made her think of—but no, she would not allow herself to think of him,not now. He had made his choice, clearly: she must accept it, however much pain it caused her, and soldier on.

"Next," said the Immigration Inspector on his stool in front of her, and she dutifully stepped to the window and handed him the sheet she had filled out. He looked down at it. "What is your name?"

"Miss Rachel Maria Nowak," Rey told him, trying not to tremble. Her palms were damp. What if she got a question wrong, and had to be sent back to England? Oh, she would die!

"Your age?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"Female?"

"Yes."

"Married, single, widowed, or divorced?"

"S-single," she said. _Except I am engaged, but not really: it's far too complicated._

"Occupation?"

"Ballet dancer."

His brows went up at that, but he went on. "You are able to read and write?"

"Of course, in English and in French."

"What country are you from?"

"England. Before that, France."

The Inspector seemed to like that, nodding as he wrote. "Your race?"

"Wh—Caucasian." She ought to try to sound educated, at least.

"Last permanent place of residence?"

 _In Lord Solo's bed._ "London, England."

"Have you got a name or address from a relative in your native land?"

"No. I am an orphan without relatives," she had to say.

"Where are you going to stay in America?"

That threw her. "Wherever I can work, I suppose. New York is as good a place to stay as any."

"Hm. Who paid your passage?"

"I did," she said.

"How much money do you have with you?"

"None. It was all lost in the sinking. I was on the _Titanic_."

"Ah, quite." He gave her a kindly look and peered back down at his paper. "Have you ever been to America before?"

"No, sir."

"Hm, and no relatives…have you ever been in prison, an almshouse, or an insane asylum?"

Good gracious. " _No_ , sir," Rey said, slightly taken aback.

"And you are not a polygamist, I'd wager. Are you an anarchist?" He looked at her over the tops of his spectacles.

"No!" she said, shocked.

"Good. You are coming to America to work? Where and what shall you work at?"

"I intend to present a letter of recommendation to whatever ballet instructors or opera houses are here in New York, and work as either a dancer or as an instructor. Or—or possibly as a governess, who teaches French," she added, thinking desperately.

"Condition of your health?"

"Excellent."

"Deformed or crippled?"

"No."

"How tall are you?"

"Five feet, seven inches."

"Skin color?"

"White, I suppose."

"Hair and eye color?"

"Brown and, er, brown."

"Any identifying marks upon your body? Birthmark, scar?"

"No, sir." She tried very hard not to think of Lord Solo's scar, or indeed about him at all.

"Place of birth?"

"Paris, France."

"Well, Miss Nowak, all seems in order." He sat back. "You are cleared to go downstairs and take a meal, and they shall tell you where to go from there. Good luck."

Rey could hardly believe her ears. "Oh—oh, thank you," she stammered, and quickly turned away as he called out for the next person, who happened to be Ilsa. "If I don't meet you outside—" she began, stretching out her fingers.

"Go!" said Ilsa, clutching her hand. "Write me at Hansen Homestead, St. Paul, Minnesota, as soon as you can!" Rey hugged her tight and turned away quickly, rushing to the stairs.

* * *

In a very different part of New York, down a wet cobbled street that faced the lush and green Central Park, inside a grand house, a conversation was happening that Lord John Benjamin Solo was beginning to wish would come to a quick and merciful end.

"I am very sorry for all your trouble," said Mrs. Harkness, a matron no less slim and waspish than her daughter, who sat in uncharacteristically sober dark blue silently to her right. "But I do agree: the wedding simply cannot take place, not after such a great tragedy—why, Mr. Ismay is already being raked over the coals in the press for saving his own life. We would appear quite out of line, my dear Lady Solo."

"Yes, indeed," said Lady Solo, sitting beside her son. "Well. We must find accommodation, and go back to England as soon as we can." Lord Solo gave a little start and sat more upright, a twitch below his eye the only sign of his emotion at her words. "And," said Lady Solo, pretending she had not noticed, "we both must write letters to our insurers and collect on the value of the items we have lost: all Clarisse's lovely things must have cost a good deal."

"I hear Lady Duff-Gordon has put forth an outrageous sum already to be reimbursed upon," said Mrs. Harkness. "It's a black day indeed for the insurance companies." She and Lady Solo exchanged bitter little half-smiles. "Well. You might stay here if you like for the time being: I will take Clarisse back to our summer home in Norfolk."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly impose—" began Lady Solo, but Mrs. Harkness waved her off.

"Nonsense, my dear Lady Solo. You have all been through enough already, and the house was intended to be a wedding-gift anyway. I have already signed the deed and title and staffed the place, so someone might as well get some use out of it before I sell it again. I think the end of the summer, perhaps, or autumn: it won't do to show such a quick resale. Makes one look a spendthrift in the papers."

"Thank you very much," said Lord Solo, glancing repeatedly at the clock on the wall. "If you'll excuse me, ladies, I have an errand to run."

"An errand?" Lady Solo raised an eyebrow. "It's nearly seven o'clock on a Thursday, Ben."

He stood. "I know, Mother. I just—I want to get some air."

Lady Solo relented. "Well, don't stay out too late."

"Of course not," he said, and was into the foyer grabbing for his hat and coat before anyone could say another word. The great walnut door shut, and Lady Solo turned to Mrs. Harkness and sighed.

"It's all right, Mama," said Clarisse confidentially, "he's _mad_ , you see."

* * *

Lord Solo would have not bothered to hound down the driver for a lift, but New York public transport was _vulgar_ according to both Mrs. Harkness and Mama, and he begrudgingly admitted to himself that if he wanted to reach the ferry docks outside Ellis Island anytime soon, he should take motorized transport and not go on foot in the dark and the wet, especially not after his ordeal. So—he found himself climbing into the back-seat of their shining Phaeton and tersely telling the driver where he wished to go.

Miss Nowak must wait. She _must_. Solo was wholly ignorant as to the procedures that immigrants must follow, but he was sure she would not be turned out and forced to wander into the city without a choice. Perhaps she was waiting for him, just outside. He tried to remember what she had been wearing: her shabby coat, he knew that; no hat at all, a pair of old shoes. What color had her clothes been? He could not remember.

The car rumbled over the cobblestones and made its way at a breakneck speed of twenty miles per hour down the road, and Solo shut his eyes and prayed that he would not be too late. If only he had rushed out of the customs office the moment they had arrived—if only he had demanded to turn back and go searching for her! But no: his own cowardice and fear had crept about his heart like a vise, and he had sat silent and resigned until he could bear it no longer, at precisely half-past six. And now, perhaps he was too late in his actions: perhaps she had given up on him and gone away into the masses of people who populated this great city, and he would never see her again. His healing face beneath its layers of linen throbbed with every beat of his pounding heart. The thought of losing her was too much to bear: he would not consider it.

There was nothing he could do but sit, so sit he did, until at long last the motorcar came to a halt and he leaped out onto the street. Before him stood the great ferry station that let off passengers from Ellis Island, gleaming in the darkness of the harbor beyond. A flood of people was rushing out from the gate, and he could only think to step forward and call out, looking from side to side wildly. "Rachel Nowak? Miss Nowak?"

* * *

Rey Nowak clutched her coat tight as she hurried out into the wet street. Her belly was blessedly full of good hearty stew and bread and butter, and she breathed the damp night air: she was _free_ , and in America, no less, and the whole world had opened full of opportunities all at once. It did not matter that her coat had lost a button, or that she had no hat or clothes besides what was on her back at all: it did not matter that she was hopelessly alone, for she was quite used to that—but a pang in her heart made her remember that she had _not_ been alone, for a shining, single moment.

It was beginning to rain again, and she shivered. Someone from a relief organization had given her money as she had gone out to the door, saying it was for the _Titanic_ survivors, poor souls, and she had unthinkingly taken it without protest—unusual for her, she reflected, but perhaps the sensible thing to do, after all. She had no place to stay or sleep, and ten whole dollars was enough to get a room in a boarding-house for the week. Perhaps there were respectable places somewhere nearby.

 _You ought to find him_ , whispered her plaintive little mind. Rey tamped it down: there was no time for romantic notions now: and anyway he had made no effort to seek her out. She must go find shelter, and quickly. A nun holding a rosary was standing outside by the street, and Rey made straight for her, breaking away from the mass of people she was trapped in and the confusion of languages and shouting.

"Please, sister," she said politely, "I've just come off the _Titanic_ , and—"

"Oh, you poor, sweet child!" exclaimed the nun, looking shocked. "God has saved you, surely!"

"Yes, well," said Rey awkwardly, "I have never been to this city, and I'm afraid I must find a place to sleep: do you know of a respectable house, perhaps, for young ladies? Or—or an inn? Or a boarding-house? I'm not very particular."

The nun nodded fervently. "Of course, of course! There is a fine house for young women, the St. Agnes Residence, in the middle of Manhattan, on West 74th Street and Broadway. Take the streetcar over. Go there and tell them your name and that you have survived the wreck, and they will help you."

"Oh, thank you!" Rey said quickly.

"God bless you, child," she said. Rey turned, looking for a streetcar, and stepped past the crowd to the curb, blinking in the rain falling down like golden mist in the light from the streetlamps.

* * *

Lord Solo hesitated. He had thought he saw a dark head of hair not twenty feet away, but the crowd was so loud and moved so rapidly that he misplaced it. A streetcar was pulling up to a halt, and he was still by the gate, a good forty feet back. He turned, trying to see past the hazy rain that blurred his sight, and saw—

* * *

Rey thought she heard a voice rise above the clamor of the bell and the attendant shouting the stop as she stepped up, but she was too distracted to turn around. "Does this car go to Manhattan?" she asked the driver desperately.

"Yes, miss! Stay on till we're across the bridge!" He took a second look at the manifest, still pinned to her coat. " _Titanic?_ "

"Yes—"

"Why, you just tell me straightaway where you're going, and I'll get you there. Don't worry a bit. And don't worry about the fare either," he said generously, and she took her hand out of her pocket and made her way toward a seat, thanking him.

She sat, and looked out the window, wet with rain. She thought she saw—

* * *

Lord Solo's mouth went dry and he halted where he stood, stunned into stillness. The curve of shoulder and neck, the set of the head, the line of the jaw: it had to be her, it could be nobody else—and he could not move, paralyzed with terror and indecision. The young woman entered and exchanged a word with the operator before she disappeared inside without a second look back.

_She did not see me? She must have seen me. She does not want—_

_She doesn't—_

* * *

Rey froze in her seat, staring as hard as she could out the window. She could not make out the form of the man who stood head and shoulders above the crowd, but the pale long face was unmistakable, even through the rain. _Ben!_ cried out her whole soul, and she almost rose out of her seat on instinct, but the streetcar had ground to a start and begun to move away, and she was trapped, sitting like a deer, unable to move or think or do anything but stare through the wet-blurred glass.

He did not move, or make to come after her. He only stood there until the darkness swallowed him and he was lost to sight.

Rey turned away as if she had been burned and clutched her hands together in her skirt. _He must have seen me.  Did he? Did he not recognize me? Or does he—_

_Does he—_

A wild and terrible thought entered her mind: perhaps she was the only one who knew of his dreadful secret, and he had come to hunt her down and murder her so that it would not get out into polite society and ruin the reputation of his family. She had a sudden and awful picture float before her eyes: her body lying on the ground while Lord Solo raised his fist in triumph, clutching the ruby ring in his hand, as red as her beating heart—no! That was outrageous. She had let those bloody Gothic novels she had borrowed in London from the girls get to her: Jane Eyre and the mad wife in the attic and all that gloomy nonsense. Besides, hadn't he told her he grew faint and sick at the sight of blood? As if such a man was capable of murder. He wasn't: he was kind, and gentle—

A great lump seemed to stick in her throat, and her face grew hot. "Stop that at once," she told herself sternly, ignoring the sideways looks from the other passengers. She put her hands between her knees and took a deep breath. A singular thought came to her: what if Mrs. Brown's pretty dress, the one she had bought for her daughter, the one Rey had borrowed for dinner—what if it had not been saved? What if it was floating now in the cold sea, all the beautiful velvet and silk gone to waste? It would rot away, and—and—

Rachel Nowak became aware that she was crying, and once she had begun, she could not stop. Her body wracked with awful sobs, and the tears would not cease no matter how she tried to control herself.

"Here, now," said a kindly gentleman with a handkerchief, and he handed it to her. "You're all right."

"The shock, I expect: she came off _Titanic_ ," said a woman to another.

Rey buried her face in the man's hanky and sobbed. She could not explain to these strangers why she was crying: she could not even explain it to herself. All she knew was that a vast, sweeping emptiness had taken place inside her heart where once something small and lovely had been growing. "I'm s-sorry," she managed to say, and her fellow passengers clucked and patted her and rustled about like hens in a coop, until they were across the bridge and on the island of Manhattan; and soon after that the attendant called out for Broadway and seventy-fourth.

She departed the streetcar and waved good-bye as it departed, and turned to face the steps of St. Agnes. Then she took a moment to compose herself, set her chin in an unconscious little gesture of determination and marched up to the door, knocking on it firmly.

A new life awaited her. She would be all right: she was used to being alone in the world.

* * *

Lord Solo stayed where he was, his feet as fast to the cobblestones as if he was trapped there. He had seen her; he knew it as surely as he knew the rain was dripping down the back of his neck. Her face had turned toward him, and the streetcar had taken her away, and she had not come out. She had let it carry her off. She had not come out. She had let him stand there. She did not want him.

She did not _want_ him.

 _Of course she doesn't_ , Solo thought numbly. _You idiot. You told her you killed your father._ He looked down at his hands, and they were both trembling, he saw with a detached sort of curiosity. _Look at my hands_ , he had said to her in the cargo hold. _They're made for work. I was never meant to be a lord._ What had his hands done? Patted his dogs. Clutched reins. Helped ladies from carriages. Sketched out meticulous designs, fantastical inventions—clung to the lilac-scented locks of Rey Nowak's dark hair—

Lord Solo tried to stop himself from thinking, from remembering; but it all came back at once in a flood he could not stop: his fingers clinging to the hard muscle of her thighs, gripping her small waist, his palm cupping her cheek as if it had been formed specifically to do so. _I was made for you_ , he thought in despair, _and you—you for me._ His body fitted to hers perfectly, his mouth on hers, his hands clinging to her fine strong back; his fingers wound into her hair.

His hands: curling around the stock and butt of a shotgun.

His finger, pulling the trigger that sent birdshot flying into the face and chest of his father.

"Sir? You all right?"

Solo blinked down into the concerned face of a uniformed man—no doubt some employee of the ferry. "Yes," he said shortly, and his tone made the man back up a step. He tried again. "Yes, I was looking for someone, and they are not here."

"Ah, sorry to hear it," said the man, edging away despite Solo's efforts and touching his cap. "Going to be a cold night, sir."

"Yes," said Solo mechanically, and turned away. The Phaeton was still waiting for him, the driver dry and warm, and he forced his feet to move, first the right, then the left, while rain dripped into his clothing.

Somewhere off to his right in the dark, a street preacher was crying out, "The blood of Christ washeth away all sins!" faintly. What a city this was: what a feverish, clamoring mess of humanity.

 _Perhaps_ , thought Solo, _but only lilac scent and a pair of wide eyes can wash out mine_. And she was far away, and he would never see her again so long as they both lived.

Well, she had gone, and that was that. He stoically climbed back up into the car, shut the door behind him, and ordered the driver to take him back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Ah, Ellis Island. Yes, immigrants were asked the infamous "29 questions" after being thoroughly checked for disease or illness, and if they passed, they were free to enter the States. You'll note that no question was ever asked about religion.  
> -It's a bit of a haul from Ellis Island to Central Park. Poor Lord Solo. Also, immigrants coming off Ellis Island were taken to New Jersey, not New York, but for the sake of the narrative I've condensed it slightly. We can say Solo took the bridge over into Weehauken and all the way down to the railroad terminal, if you like.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had done his best to stay out of the cold in the weeks following the incident, or indeed water in general, as he did not care in the slightest to be reminded of the ordeal he had undergone, but the heat of the bath felt as if it could not penetrate to his bones: it was as if he was ice to the core, and would never be warm again.

The evening was late. Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo sat in the Harkness' sitting room after those gracious hosts had departed Harkness Hall for good in a cloud of scent and lace and listened patiently as the front door flew open with a bang. Footsteps, heavy and solid, went all the way from the foyer to the stairs: she would have recognized that step even if she had been on the other side of the house, for the sound of her son's feet running had been a long-cherished thing she had kept close to her heart.

Ben's bedroom door upstairs slammed shut, and the house was silent once more. Lady Solo shut her eyes and set aside the handkerchief she had been idly twisting in her hands: she longed to go upstairs to him and sit beside his bed like she had often done when he was a small child, and pat his head gently and tell him everything would be all right.

But he was a grown man of thirty, and she was in her late fifties (Good God, where _had_ the time gone?), and her son was in one of his tempers that she could not allay any more than she could stop the sun from setting. Lady Solo sighed and stood. She would go to bed, and perhaps the morning would bring a brighter day.

The morning, however, did not bring a brighter day, literally or metaphorically, and found the inhabitants of Harkness House through a grey spring morning haze. Lord Solo did not come down for breakfast, preferring to take it in his room, and Lady Solo ate alone, thanked the maid, and went to sit in the morning room.

She recognized this mood of her son's well. He would isolate himself for days at a time, storming about—or being absolutely silent, which was almost more nerve-wracking. Whatever had happened, he would come and tell her about it in his own time. It was not something that could be rushed.

Lady Solo spent her morning writing letters to all her acquaintances in England and America, informing them that the wedding was to be quietly and amiably called off, and that they had survived the wreck. At lunch, she opened the noon paper, and read all about the inquiry so far: it seemed as if Ismay was under intense scrutiny, and a certain American Senator was particularly keen on heading up the thing—why, he'd even gone to Congress to propose a resolution that would grant the Commerce Committee the power to hold an investigation, and they had required all the surviving crew and officers to remain in America until the inquiry was satisfied.  Lady Solo shut the paper. This was going to be a long summer, indeed. 

At dinnertime, she ate alone at the grand dining table in silence, listening to the wind blow about the great house, which seemed deserted—and wasn't that foolish: with the whole place fully staffed? But the rooms Lady Solo walked in all stood empty and cold despite their grandeur, and upstairs, no sound was heard at all.

* * *

Days turned to weeks, and the weeks stretched into a month. Lady Solo responded to the letters that flooded back in from her acquaintances and her barrister in London, and read the paper, and watched the rains slowly cease, day by day; the blue sky came out more often, wispy clouds of early May scudding across the expanse above the oaks and chestnuts in Central Park that were so lovely to walk beneath—which she did alone most days when it was fine weather. Her son had still not emerged from his rooms, and she was beginning to worry in spite of herself.

Finally, one fine evening in mid-May, she set her shoulders and ascended the walnut staircase to the second floor, striding down the hall and knocking briskly on his door without speaking. Three quick raps, and she waited.

"It's unlocked," said a hoarse, low voice from within. She turned the handle and pushed it open.

Her son sat slumped in an armchair, a nearly-empty decanter of brandy dangling from one fist. Lady Solo stopped quite short in her tracks. He looked as if he had not slept for a week, he was unshaven, and the room smelled stuffy. "Ben?" she asked.

"Not so loud," he muttered, wincing and rubbing his temples. "For God's sake, Mother."

"You have locked yourself in your room for a month and spent all that time drinking, I suppose," she said crisply, not bothering to lower her voice in the slightest. Marching over to the window, she swept the curtain aside with a flourish and screech of rings on iron, and Ben groaned as the sunlight flooded the room. Lady Solo turned and faced him. "I do not know where you went that night, or what happened that you returned in a rage. I shall not demand answers of you, either. It has been over a month. You will clean yourself up and go to bed at once."

Ben met her eyes with his, and she was taken off her guard by the expression she found there. It was not anger, or even obstinacy: it was only misery, black as night. He did not storm or bluster, either: he only said, "Yes, Mother," and shut his eyes.

"Have you been barring the maids from cleaning?" she asked, gentler this time.

"Yes." He lifted the decanter to his mouth and finished the last of the brandy.

Lady Solo strode across and snatched the empty decanter out of his hands. She had not needed to use such force, either, for he did not fight her for it. Ben reeked of spirits, and besides that, his clothing—shirt and trousers and unbuttoned waistcoat—was rumpled and stained, his hair had grown over his brows in a shaggy, uncombed mess, and the healing wound on his cheek had faded to a raised, angry pinkish-red diagonal line that bisected his face from brow to jaw. " _Ben_ ," she said, appalled at his state. "When did you last eat?"

Ben rested his head on the back of the chair. "I don't remember," he said, and to her shock she saw tears welling up in his eyes.

"Well," said Lady Solo, setting the decanter on the side-table, "first things first, then. I'll have the cook send a tray up for you, and we'll get the maids up here to air the room out a bit. And—why, Ben, whatever is the matter?" she asked abruptly, for he had put his head in his hands, and his broad shoulders were heaving with silent sobs.

"What is the _matter_ ," he echoed, gaining control over his emotions. "I have disgraced our family, lost an heirloom, disgraced myself, been disfigured—oh, and I shot my own father _dead_ —"

"Ben," said Lady Solo, shocked. "You have not disgraced yourself at all: the wedding was called off most amiably and—"

"That is not what I mean," he said bleakly.

"You—" And Lady Solo suddenly _knew_ , realization and memory flooding her mind as the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, the thoughts she had not allowed herself to think as she had bobbed about in the lifeboat, staring at a beautifully-done sketch of Miss Rachel Nowak as nude as Eve in the Garden of Eden. She sank to her seat in the other chair. "You _did_ ruin that girl," she said, aghast. "How _could_ you! I raised you better than that!"

"You might say we ruined each other," Ben said in a dull tone. "I meant—I meant to do the right thing and wed her, but she—she is gone. She has not sought me out. She has deserted me, and I will never love another woman as I loved her."

Lady Solo tried to gather her thoughts. The little dancer, disgraced or not, had not come calling, and it was not difficult to discover their present address, either. She might had sold off the ruby and run away—but that was impossible: her insurers' agents had diligently scoured every pawn-shop and jewelers from here to Baltimore and found nothing at all, and the insurance cheque was already in the post, in fact; it would be extremely embarrassing if the girl _did_ suddenly turn up with the jewel. She felt it prudent not to speak of that, however.

"Ben," she tried, very gently. "You must not blame yourself."

"Who else can I blame?" he demanded, lurching forward in his chair. "I have put the blame on Father, on you, on Clarisse, on Uncle Luke and on Miss Nowak, on every other person from here to Skywalker House—it has done me not a lick of good at all, and I find myself alone the only person to blame for all my sins." Tears were flowing down his cheeks again. "It is all my fault."

" _No_ ," said Lady Solo urgently. "No, it is my fault." Some trembling emotion was gathered in her throat, and she pushed past it with difficulty. "If I had not sent you away to school so young—if I had only—"

"You shouted at me for asking about the ledger," he said, choking on tears, and she sensed that this wound ran old, old and deep and strong. Shame filled her.

"Yes," she said simply. "I did. And it was wrong of me: not a day goes by I do not regret it—for by doing so I drove a wedge between you and your father and I. When one grows up, Ben, one realizes that one's parents are only human beings, who do wrong things and make questionable decisions—and I—" Tears welled up in her own eyes. "I fear I resented it: I resented you growing up and seeing your father and I with new eyes, and I am sorry for it, Ben; more sorry than you can imagine." Ben covered his eyes with his hand, and sat in silence for a moment. Lady Solo dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

"Do you remember the time I tried to smoke Father's pipe?" he asked.

She smiled wryly. "How could I forget? You sneaked into his study, inhaled a lungful of old tobacco ash, and got sick all over the fine Persian carpet."

Ben lowered his hand, tears glittering in his eyes despite the smile on his face. "And when he came in, he looked right at you and he said—"

They finished in unison, "'why, it looks like the _dog_ got into my tobacco!'"

Lady Solo wiped her own eyes. "He loved you so very much, Ben."

"I know," he said, looking as if he was seeing something very far away. "When he—when he died, he said to me—he said, _it's all right, my boy_ , and after—well, he was gone."

"You told me you thought you had done it knowing what you were doing. Do you believe truly that you shot him maliciously?" Lady Solo asked. "Do you believe you are capable of that?"

"I—" Ben shook his head. "I don't know. I hadn't thought myself capable of dishonoring myself before April, yet I did it. But… no. I suppose not. He—he wouldn't have told me it was all right if _he_ had thought I killed him purposely, would he?"

"I don't believe so," said Lady Solo softly. "My dear boy, grief unchecked makes ruins of us all. We ask ourselves what we might have done to stop it, or blame ourselves for nothing at all, and sometimes we think these fancies true when they are not. No, I do not believe Han thought you killed him."

"What will we do now?" Ben asked after another long silence.

"Well," said Lady Solo, "after we collect on our insurance, we shall have a tidy sum. Not much, but if we spend carefully and invest wisely, we may have enough to ensure that Skywalker House will not fall into ruin. For the present, I think you ought to shave and take a bath, and come down to dinner. It is very lonely, sitting by one's self all the time. I do not much care for it."

Ben bent his head. "I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded it.

She stood and reached out, laying her hand on his shoulder. "I shall see you in a bit," she told him, and left.

* * *

Lord Solo sat alone in the fusty bedroom and stared at the wall without seeing it. His mind was very far away, and felt curiously blank: in fact, his whole body felt empty and light, as if there was nothing to say or do or think now that he had finally given in and laid out all his grief and despair at his mother's feet. How strange, that he had not done it before—but he knew full well why he had not; wallowing in his own misery for a month like a sullen child was far more enjoyable in a way that pulling himself out of it was not. Alone, he could lick his wounds and rage at all the slights and injustice Life had dealt him: he could weep over what was never to be. Pulling himself out of that depression proved to be a kind of catharsis he did not know he had wanted, and did not care to know that he had wanted—to an extent.

He got out of his chair and swayed slightly, his head swimming. There was more brandy in his belly than he'd thought, and no food to anchor any of it down. Five steps took him into the private bathroom, and soon after that he found himself huddled over the porcelain sink, retching violently into the basin. _I've drunk too much_ , he thought miserably. _Rey wouldn't like that—_

At the thought of Rey, he groaned aloud. Thinking of her was still too painful, like a knife twisting in his heart. He would not do it. He could not think of her—yet think of her he did. He was grateful that Mother had not said something to the effect of _you will find another wife_ to him—he did not think he would be able to stand it. How could any suitable woman of the class his mother desired hold a candle to the spirited little dancer with the ability to be at ease in any situation? How could any milquetoast girl with plump white arms come close in comparison to his spitting, whirling, dancing little Firebird? All that bright future he had envisioned was melting away like morning mist, and he was sinking back into black despair again. Solo had thought that to marry Clarisse would be Hell on Earth, but he found the truth within himself—to _not_ wed Miss Rachel Nowak and to instead be left alone would be the worst thing he could imagine.

If only he had never met her. If only he had not gone down to third-class: he might have gotten away with calling off the wedding and he would have been pleased to wed any other high-class young woman his mother chose. A man might live on tasteless mush for food his whole life, but give him a taste of real food, of meat and wine and flavor, and he would never again go back to the gruel…

Solo drew himself upright. Thinking about food made his belly growl, an uncomfortable reminder that he had not eaten properly in—days? He started a bath and stripped out of his dirty clothes. It was cold in the bathroom, and he looked at himself in the mirror.

His beard, which he had never been able to really grow properly, was darkly furred about his chin and upper lip: scattered patches on his jawline, but there was no hair growing where the scar divided his right cheek. His hair had grown out more than he was used to and touched his shoulders now, and was uncombed and wild, making him look much older than he was. _I look like a wild man of the woods_ , he thought sourly, and ran his hand across his face before turning away from the mirror.

Sinking into the blessedly hot water felt like being swallowed alive. Solo got in as deep as possible, shoulders down beneath the steaming surface. He had done his best to stay out of the cold in the weeks following the incident, or indeed water in general, as he did not care in the slightest to be reminded of the ordeal he had undergone, but the heat of the bath felt as if it could not penetrate to his bones: it was as if he was ice to the core, and would never be warm again.

Solo stayed in the water for as long as he could, until his skin was lobster-red and he was sweating, before he scrubbed himself from head to toe and stepped out, wrapping himself in his dressing-gown and turning to face the mirror again. He picked up his razor and lathered his face in soap, then gave himself a long look before shaving his face closely and carefully.

When he was done, he set the razor aside and rinsed his face clean, giving himself another critical look in the mirror. The scar had faded in color, but was still an ugly, raised ridge of thick, nerveless skin. His hair was still long, but slicked back, looked presentable: the face below it was as it had always been, save for the dark circles beneath his eyes caused by sleeplessness.

Well, it would do him no good to stay up here. He was hungry, and dinner was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Well, Lord Solo's not exactly handling things well, is he? Next chapter we shall pop in on our dear Miss Nowak and see how she is holding up.   
> -Now we know of the unfortunate Pipe Incident.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been two months since she had found a place at the Metropolitan Opera, and even though her room and board had been secured perfectly well, and she ate every day, she still felt as if a great gulf existed in her heart, one that sought to be satisfied. She refused to think at all of _him_ , for he was truly a rogue of the highest order, if he had not come to find her and did not intend to fulfil the offer he had made her.

"Arms up higher!" said Madame sharply. "Miss _Nowak_!"

Rachel Nowak obeyed instantly. Her mind had been a thousand miles away, but she had been jolted back to the present at the words of her teacher. "Yes, Madame," she said quickly.

The formidable instructor turned to the rest of the girls, rustling in her lavender silks, her serious face finding them all. "Now, you shall practice the ballet from the second act. I do not want to see a single foot out of place, ladies." The pianist began to play, and Rey put her chin up and mechanically went through all the steps perfectly, for she had danced in _Carmen_ before twenty times, and knew this part almost better than she knew how to breathe.

It had been two months since she had found a place at the Metropolitan Opera, and even though her room and board had been secured perfectly well, and she ate every day, she still felt as if a great gulf existed in her heart, one that sought to be satisfied. She refused to think at all of _him_ , for he was truly a rogue of the highest order, if he had not come to find her and did not intend to fulfil the offer he had made her. Only a man, like any other man: to fondle and talk sweetly and to disappear when promises were made—bah! She did not feel sorry for herself in the slightest anymore. _I was a little fool who let my head be turned by rubies and promises_ , she thought, as she executed an arabesque. The ruby—that, at least, still remained, worn under all her clothes—or when she was rehearsing, tucked safely into her waiting and empty right shoe. She did not know why she kept it, aside from the practicality of getting rid of it. Perhaps Lady Solo would come asking about it one day, and whatever she was, she was not a thief. Yes, that was what she told herself, over and over: that was the only reason why she kept the ring.

The music ended, and the girls relaxed, stepping back and waiting for their instructor to tell them all what they had done wrong. She only shook her head and smiled wryly. "You have all done very well," she admitted. "I shall see you again tomorrow, and do not forget to eat lightly before practice." They all curtsied politely and began to make off for the dressing-rooms. Rachel turned to join them. "Miss Nowak," said the instructor, and Rey paused, heart thumping as the room emptied. She had not missed a step at all—every movement had been flawless, she knew it. What could Madame Holdo want?

The matron stepped up to her. From the first day Rey had stepped into the Opera, the woman had been an inscrutable mystery. She was prone to swift changes of mood, and insistent above all else on steely perfection of the art of dance: the other girls said she had been a fine dancer in Russia, or perhaps Germany. Nobody knew, quite; they all only called her Madame and stayed out of her way.

"How are you settling in?" asked Madame, once the room was empty of all but the two of them.

"Very well, Madame," said Rey, turning in surprise.

"Mm," said Madame Holdo. "I am not prone to flowery speech, so I shall say what I intended to say. I know you are a survivor of the _Titanic_ , and I know we are very lucky to have you here."

"Oh," said Rey, surprised, "thank you, Madame—"

"But," said Madame, "you are not _feeling_ the dance when you dance. There is no emotion behind it. You have locked it all away somewhere, haven't you?"

Rachel felt as if she had been struck across the face. "I—I—"

"It is all right," said Madame Holdo, waving her hand. "A great event in a person's life often takes something of their ability to _create_ , you know. To dance, to paint, to write. I shall not press, but—you have suffered some pain?"

"Yes," said Rey, shocked at the tears filling her eyes. "I—I have, Madame."

"I thought as much. You move like a mechanical swan. Beautiful, and perfect, and entirely without life or emotion." Madame gestured to the bench. "Come, let us sit."

Rey followed her to the bench and sat. The heat of exercise had worn off, and her bare arms were cold. Madame handed her a shawl and she sat clutching it and looking at her feet in their dance shoes (new ones, just broken in, too: she had finally had enough money to buy them).

"Now," said Madame, lacing her fingers, "I confess I am not a physician of the mysteries of the mind. But I do know that grief and loss and other such unpleasant things are best dealt with when spoken about, not when pushed deep down under."

Rey did not say anything. Something was curling deep in her belly that she did not want to think about at all. "I don't think—" She swallowed. "I don't think I'll ever be able to talk about it, Madame."

"Perhaps," said Madame. "I believe you might be an excellent prima ballerina if you learn to _use_ your emotions, to express them in the dance. You might even take the position before we put on the first performance of _Carmen_ , and after that you could take on pupils of your own: you have the talent."

That, oh—that was tempting. Rey swallowed. "I—I saw people die," she began, her voice trembling. Madame said nothing, only nodded. "A friend, for one—and I knew that the family members of others had died, too. It was so cold, and nobody knew what was going on at all until the very end, and—and I thought I had lost someone very dear to me—" The tears were welling up now, very hot and close in her throat. "I met him on the ship, and he—he did not, I did not know he was alive until the morning. But he has not sought me out at all, and—and I feel I was a fool to think he would." She clapped her hands to her mouth, shutting her eyes tight: Madame _must_ not see her cry—but it was inevitable, tears came all the same. "I'm sorry, Madame," she gasped.

"My dear girl," said Madame softly, "you are certainly not the first woman who ever lost a dear friend, even a gentleman friend. Death or distance: it makes no difference, does it?"

"No," said Rey, wiping her eyes.

Madame Holdo reached out and took her hand firmly. "Take that thing you are feeling now. Use it. Wear it for the performance. Tomorrow, I want to see you _feel_ as you dance. You understand?"

"Yes," whispered Rey.

"Good." Madame released her hand and patted it. "Now, get dressed. It will not do to keep you here all night."

Rey offered her a wan smile and nodded, hurrying toward the door.

* * *

_Home_ now was a respectable room at St. Agnes', only twenty feet by twenty feet. Miss Rachel Nowak had a creaky bed with a soft mattress, and a braided rag rug for the floor, and a chest of drawers: a sitting-chair she covered with a blanket, a small table with a leg that was too short, and a washing-stand with a basin and a pitcher and a looking-glass that was starting to go green at the edges. But it was clean and decent and warm at night, and there was a bathroom she shared with three other girls down the hall—she liked it very much.

Putting off her coat, she sat down and stretched her legs, feeling the muscles ache pleasantly. She did not have very much longer before she became too old to dance—perhaps only five or so years if she was lucky—and after that she would tutor the next crop of young dancers, if she gained the position of prima ballerina, anyway.

"Use it for the performance," she mimicked softly, and wiggled her toes. Perhaps Madame was right. Emotions, after all, were entirely natural, and channeled in the proper way…

Rey stood up and took off her shoes, thinking that she ought to buy a new pair. Off came her shirtwaist, and off came her heavy walking-skirt, until she was standing in her petticoat and camisole, her two bared arms stretched out. She hummed the music to herself, and instantly felt very foolish: she would catch a draft or something. Quickly, she put a blanket about her shoulders and went to see if the bathroom was unoccupied. It was, and she slipped in, putting off the rest of her clothing, and drew a bath.

The ruby ring dangled on its watch-chain about her neck, and she caught at it reflexively as she bent to turn the spigot shut. She had done her best to stolidly ignore its presence, but that did no good when its clinking, steady weight lay in her fingers. _His_ watch-chain, she reminded herself painfully as she stepped into the tub and let the water cover her legs.

She must have it at least returned to him at some point, even if he did not want to speak to her—it was, after all, the honest thing to do—but how ever would she find him in a city this size? All the finest people, she knew, lived in great brownstone mansions about Central Park, but it surely would not do to go knocking from door to door like a beggar. _Why, of course_ , she thought suddenly, _you know his mother's name, and you could go to the post-office and ask…_

What a ridiculous notion. And yet—perhaps, in light of the tragedy, not so ridiculous. Lady Solo had been stricken with terror as Rey had leaped from the life-boat, and for all she knew, Rey was dead, drowned a thousand miles away under the sea. She had liked the lady a good deal, and it was surely not fair to let her go on thinking she had died. Unless—unless Lord Solo had told his mother she had lived—in which case, it might not be prudent to come calling at all: she still had the ruby ring and might be marked as a thief should Lord Solo not come to her protection or defense, and be chased by the police, and that was not a pleasant thought.

Rey washed, trying not to think of Lord Solo, or the promises he had made her. There would be other men, she was sure: once she became a famous dancer she might have suitors from everywhere, and they would throw roses onto the stage and shout _Brava!_ while she curtsied and the crowd roared.

 _But none of them will be Lord Solo_ , said her heart plaintively. They might be handsome men, tall men, strong men—but none of them would be him.

"Stop that," she said aloud to herself, but it lacked any real heat. Her plan to achieve her dream had been so clear and straightforward until he had come into her life—it was not fair. She had sold everything, made the journey, survived the bloody ship _sinking_ , and finally established herself in the Metropolitan Opera chorus against all odds: yet her heart was longing for something else—and not just anything else, either—a man above her station, entirely untouchable, who had _killed his own father,_ no, _that_ was what her heart wanted—the despicable traitor! She had been both relieved and upset in equal measures when her courses had come at their usual time, directly after she had gotten settled at St. Agnes. At first, she had thought, _perhaps_ —but no, it was not to be, and she had wept privately then, for truly now she had nothing at all to remember him by save the ring.

Rey got out of the bath and flung on her dressing gown, letting out the water and hurrying back to her room, shutting the door and sitting in her armchair. No, it was not fair at all. The man's face, despite all her most concerted efforts, floated before her eyes when she closed them, and it was as if a dam had burst: his gentle eyes, his smile, the way he had knelt on the fine carpet and asked her to marry him, the strength in his body, his poor face covered in blood—all of it came rushing back at once, and Miss Rachel Nowak burst into tears, her head in her hands.

So she passed the next five minutes in hiccupping, wet solitude; wishing desperately that things were different, and yet understanding that they could not be different at all, under the circumstances. Rey at last wiped her nose and blew it with a sigh, and her gaze flitted over to the letter Ilsa had written her last week on her dressing-table, full of excitable descriptions of the farm and of the young man she had become engaged to in reply to Rey's missive detailing her success in the Metropolitan Opera dance troupe. _Lucky Ilsa_ , Rey thought, and then felt dreadful for thinking it, for Ilsa had lost her mother only a few months ago, and Rey had had eleven whole years to divide her from her _Maman_. The thought of  _Maman_ even now turned her thoughts toward a secret of her own she had sworn to never reveal to anyone, or even think of, and that in turn made her shut the eyes of her memory and resolutely look across the room at anything else, anything at all. Her sight found the mirror, and she glared at herself. "You are being very stupid," she said to her red-eyed and damp reflection in the greening glass. Her mind went to the opera—she wished Ilsa was here in New York and able to attend, for she had two tickets that she was allowed to give to friends or family or patrons, and—

Two tickets.

Rey blinked in shock at the thought that entered her head. _Two_ tickets, and they might be given to anyone she pleased, and she might go and look up where the Solos were staying after all! The forwardness of it nearly paralyzed her, but the idea—well, she might just go and look at the house, and not ring the bell at all, mightn't she? It would be good to know where they were, just… just for the present, engagements and secrets all be damned.

Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, Rey got up and dressed like a madwoman. The post-office would close at four, and it was nearly half-past three.

* * *

Lady Solo, sitting in the drawing room, heard the knocker thwack delicately against the great front door three times. "Mary, the door," she called out to the maid, half-paying attention as she read the afternoon paper, her reading-glasses balancing on her nose. She hoped Ben would not have to wear them, as she did: Han's eyesight had remained without a flaw until he died, so there might be a good chance her son would escape a middle age full of pinched noses and red marks.

Mary's light feet tripped to the door and opened it, and Lady Solo heard muffled words, both Mary's and another voice that seemed to be that of a young woman. Both voices rose a little, and Lady Solo stood up to go see what on earth the matter was. Perhaps some young lady had gotten lost.

She entered the foyer, and the voices became clearer. "I really must ask you to go round to the back door, miss," said Mary urgently, at the sound of Lady Solo's shoes clacking on the parquet.

"For heaven's sake," said a young, female voice, pitched slightly lower, but with a perfectly proper Estuary accent. "I am not a delivery-man. I am calling on Lady Organa Solo."

"Mary?" asked Lady Solo, curiously. "What's—"

"Forgive me, ma'am," said Mary desperately, and stepped aside in time for Lady Solo to fully see her visitor on the stoop.

A delicate, fine-boned, sharp-featured face: a pair of light brown eyes, not a hair out of place under the hat, a fine mulberry-colored walking-suit of the sort that respectable middle-class ladies wore—and Lady Solo knew that face immediately, knew the woman immediately, and felt ice collect in her belly, as well as a burning sense of mingled curiosity, relief, and terror.

"Miss Nowak," she said automatically, taking off her reading-glasses. "Please, come in. I am so very relieved to find you in good health."

The young woman lightly stepped through the door and hesitated for a moment, then dipped her head. "I do apologize," she said quickly, "for calling so late in the afternoon."

"Not at all," said Lady Solo, motioning for Mary to shut the door. "Won't you come into the sitting-room? I was about to have tea brought in anyway." Mary, understanding, darted off to bring in the cart.

"I should be delighted," said Miss Nowak politely, and they stepped in together, Lady Solo taking it upon herself to shut the door to the foyer, so the servants would not hear the conversation.

She turned to Miss Nowak. "Please, sit," she said, indicating an armchair. Miss Nowak sat, very properly, and took her hat off, looking about in vain for somewhere to put it, and settling for her lap. "I presume this is not a purely social call," she began, testing the waters. What on earth did the little dancer want?

"I—no, ma'am," said Miss Nowak, coloring a little. "I—I came to offer you a pair of tickets to _Carmen_ , so you might go see it on opening night at the Metropolitan Opera: I know you and—you are fond of the theater." She opened her reticule and pulled out the tickets.

"You… you sought me out to offer me opera tickets?" asked Lady Solo, incredulous enough to forego niceties.

"I—I am dancing in the chorus," Miss Nowak said, her chin held high. "I thought you might enjoy the performance as a whole, but if I am mistaken—I can certainly go now and leave you—"

Lady Solo sank into her seat. They were blessedly interrupted by Mary, wheeling the cart full of tea-things into the room before setting everything out, curtseying, and hurrying away back into the foyer. The door shut, and Lady Solo poured for them both, trying very hard to ensure her hands would not tremble.

Two and a half months since the ship had sunk: it was enough time for certain changes to become known—changes that might not have been known earlier, at any rate.

"I must, I fear, ask you a rather personal question," said Lady Solo, after the little dancer had eaten a scone and was sipping at the tea. "You—you are not—in a delicate condition?"

Miss Nowak turned scarlet and choked on her tea, setting the cup down and coughing into the napkin. " _No!"_ she forced out.

"You are _sure_?" pressed Lady Solo, equally as mortified.

The young lady got to her feet, ears crimson. "If you must inquire after the state of my _condition_ , then you ought to know I finished my last— _courses_ —a week ago, and—and even if I _was_ —" Her lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes, and to her shock Lady Solo saw that she was weeping. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, the color receding and leaving her very pale. "This was a mistake, entirely. I ought to go and leave you alone, and I am very sorry for any distress I caused you, Lady Solo."

"Indeed you ought not. Sit down at once. You, my dear, are a most perplexing puzzle I should like to solve," Lady Solo said, shaking her head as Miss Nowak obeyed. "You come calling out of the blue after nearly three months; you do not inquire as to the health of my son, who I am sure you would rather see than me, all things considered—no, do not look at me so; he has told me enough—and offer me a pair of tickets to the opera, and what's more, you tell me you are _not_ in the family way, where I am sure that you know if you had, you would have certainly been welcome to either a cheque to keep it quiet and raise the child, or perhaps be quickly wedded to my son—"

"I do not wish," said Miss Nowak, by now quite stonily composed, "to impose any further on Lord Solo. At all. He—he does not return my feelings any more, even though he gave me a—" Her eyes flickered up to meet Lady Solo's, and her vice died in her throat at the expression she saw therein.

"If you are going to tell me something about that ruby ring," said Lady Solo very shrewdly, "I would rather you not at all. Very tragic, that it was lost in the sinking beyond all recovery. Of course, I do not blame you, my dear: you were frantic and there was such chaos that nobody would blame you if you had let it fall. Or at least that is what I told my insurer, and I have already recovered twenty thousand dollars from the loss—well, heirlooms are all well and good, but money to ensure one's child is set up for a decent life once one passes from the world—even better, don't you think so, Miss Nowak?"

Miss Nowak's lips were parted in an expression of awe, but a look of understanding suddenly crossed her face. She shut her mouth and nodded. "Yes, indeed, Lady Solo. I am very sorry I lost it."

"Don't be," said Lady Solo, rather liking the girl in spite of herself. "I never liked it: it was set in the most uncomfortable tiara in all of England that I was entitled to wear to every other dinner and holiday once I became Lady Solo. It was a dreadful old thing, and the ring was no better. We should have had it made into a pair of earrings or a brooch years ago. Now. What's all this about my son? He is currently out of the house, you know; finally getting some sunshine and fresh air—so you can speak plainly, as he will not be listening about the cracks."

"It's only that—" Miss Nowak paused, her lip caught between her teeth. "He—he told me something dreadful, and I wanted to find him on the _Carpathia_ , but they wouldn't let me leave steerage."

"Ah," said Lady Solo, shutting her eyes. "He ran up against the same obstacle, my dear. Tried to seek you out but they would not allow him into third class at all: said it was the law."

"He—" The girl swallowed. "He tried to find me?"

"Yes, he did. He was very distraught: he believed you might no longer harbor affection of feeling toward him, for he did not intend to tell you the dreadful thing he told you, and was half-frozen and delirious." Lady Solo sipped her tea, watching Miss Nowak's reaction from over the rim.

The young lady's face went through an astonishing change. She went white, then very red, then white again; two spots of color high on her cheeks. "He thought—he thought—"

"And I suppose you yourself had the same distress: how else would you take it? He never sought you out to your knowledge. He went off that night we disembarked, I suppose to find you, but you were gone. He came home and did not come out of his rooms until two days past, and admitted to me all he had done." Lady Solo gave Miss Nowak a searching look. "He was in a dreadful state."

"I am very sorry to hear it," said Miss Nowak, gone quite red in the face again. "I—I suppose you must think me a lightskirt."

"My dear Miss Nowak," said Lady Solo, setting down her saucer and cup, "I think you a highly capable, respectable, polite, and talented young woman. You would be shocked indeed at the amount of cavorting that goes about behind the scenes of the upper class: Upper class! Imagine: we call ourselves so as if we are better than anyone else, better than the men and women on the backs of whom our fortunes are made or our houses are kept, when in reality we are none of us any better than anyone. No. You are no such thing, and you ought to remember it."

"Oh," said Miss Nowak, looking stunned.

"In fact," said Lady Solo, leaning close as if in confidentiality with a twinkling eye, "you might know that Ben himself was a two months premature baby, weighing all of nine pounds twelve ounces, and nearly two feet long. Miraculous indeed!"

Miss Nowak laughed outright, flushed, and looked down. "Thank you, ma'am," she said, smiling. "I mean, my lady—I will leave those tickets, anyway. I must be going, but—I do hope you come."

They stood and Lady Solo escorted her to the door. "I shall not tell my son you came to call, if you do not tell me otherwise," she said softly as she opened it for her.

The young woman looked back at her, those extraordinary hazel-colored eyes seeming far older than the girl they belonged to. "No, I would rather you not tell him, please," she murmured, looking down. "I would not want to—to upset anything, you know. Even if he does—well."

"Of course," said Lady Solo, and kissed her on the cheek. "Would you like to take the motorcar home?"

"Oh, gracious," exclaimed Miss Nowak, looking aghast at the very idea, "I _couldn't_ —but thank you, Lady Solo, I'll be all right on the streetcar."

"Very well. Good day, and I shall see you again soon," said the lady, and shut the door behind the departing figure of the young dancer, then turned away from the afternoon light and put her back against the door, sighing deeply as she gazed into the depths of the house.

What an afternoon this had been, and it was hardly even dinner-time! "I," said Lady Solo to herself aloud, "am far too old for this sort of excitement." Matters of the heart, matters of love: all had seemed meaningless only a few months ago, when her only thought had been security for her son—now they were paramount indeed.

Going back into the sitting room, she picked up the two tickets to _Carmen_ , and considered them, before setting them back down.

* * *

"And now, ladies, arms _up_ , and get into position!" Madame Holdo barked as sternly as a minister, and the pianist began to play, measuring out the bars beat by steady beat.

Rey Nowak extended her arms into the starting position and began to move. Her mind went to the Solos as she went through all the steps she knew so well, and she thought of Lady Solo, at least, sitting and smiling in the audience as she danced on the stage in a week—she thought of Lord Solo, and controlled herself with some difficulty as she stretched out her arms and leaped into her arabesque.

He _had_ tried to find her after all, and he did not know that _she_ had been doing the same: after all, how would he have known? Hope had taken root in her heart once more, and she lifted her chin and bent her knees and whirled about in time with the other girls.

The music ended, and Madame nodded approvingly, looking out over the girls as they rested in position. "Miss Tico, you were out of step at the very end by the last measure."

"Yes, Madame—sorry, Madame—"

"Miss Ivanov, you must lift your chin higher."

"Yes, Madame—"

"In fact," said Madame, singling out Rachel with a keen eye, "I believe the only ones of you who have danced it perfectly are Miss Nowak and Miss Pava, and of the two of them, only Miss Nowak has shown great and delicate expression of feeling."

Rey felt the other girls' eyes on her, and dipped a curtsey. She felt that her face was on fire, and couldn't even look at Miss Pava, who she had begun to form a cautious friendship with.

"Dismissed, save for Miss Nowak. Don't forget to stretch," said Madame, and the girls all made their curtsies and left in a hurry. Madame turned and looked at Rey as she stood waiting. "Well. I see you have taken my advice."

"Yes, Madame," said Rey, feeling somewhat abashed.

"I am glad. If you have no objection, then, I shall put you in as understudy to Miss Petrov."

The ground felt as if it was shaking under her feet, and Rey beamed in astonished delight. "Oh—really? Oh, Madame!"

"Of course. No, compose yourself, my dear Rachel—I can't abide leaping about and embracing and all of that silliness. Your name shall be put down as…?"

"Miss Rey Nowak," said Rey, and smiled.

"Miss Rey Nowak it shall be, then. Now go home and take some rest. Starting tomorrow you shall be working directly with Miss Petrov and myself, from two to four until opening night." Madame Holdo checked her pocket-watch, which she kept on a chain like a man. "Ensure you get a full eight hours, please, Miss Nowak."

"Yes, ma'am, of course—" said Rey eagerly, and sped out of the studio as if she was Hermes made female.

* * *

"I," said Lady Solo, as her son returned from his outing in the park, "have a surprise for you."

"What is it?" Lord Solo asked, depositing his coat on the arm of the valet. Hux had not made any reappearance, and the loss of his valet was felt mostly by Lord Solo, who wished to God that his new American one would get through his head the difference between formal and semi-formal. _The difference is black and white,_ he thought distractedly, _however modern this Mitaka thinks he is._ He had half a mind to strangle him with the damned ties.

His mother brandished a pair of tickets like two swords. "Tickets to the opening night of the Metropolitan Opera's production of _Carmen_. It might do us some good to engage in society again, and what's more, you would benefit from a night out."

Solo sighed inwardly and set his hat on the stand in the foyer. His experience with opera had been mostly falling asleep, starting awake at the primadonna's belting during a particularly emotional note, and clapping without understanding what was going on at all, for he spoke barely any Italian. At least _Carmen_ was French, and he would be able to understand it. "Very well. Thank you, Mama."

"I shall make an appointment at the couturier at once," she said, and breezed off toward the study. Ben half-smiled to see her go: she had really been cooped up too long, and he thought she might like to go out and about more than he would. A new gown to replace her lost ones, a modest jewel or two, a coat—all of these would content her. "For the _both_ of us," she added as she disappeared through the door, and Ben shut his eyes in exasperation, but opened them, grudgingly deciding he did very much need a new evening jacket: after all, his old one was at the bottom of the Atlantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Miss Amelia Linora Holdo: Absolutely A "Spinster Aunt" Wink Wink Nudge Nudge  
> -We shall certainly be seeing a bit more of the ballet troupe next chapter: I am only sorry that I could not write more about them all.  
> -The "black and white" comment is Solo having an inside joke with himself. White tie was for formal dinner and full evening dress; black tie was for semi-formal events. Black tie became acceptable to wear to dinners in America by the turn of the century, but in England white tie was still considered the proper choice of wear for evening activities until after World War One. So, poor Mitaka is trying to be fashion-forward for his employer, who's subject to British sensibilities about evening wear. Pour one out.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three tiers of private boxes overlooked the floor seats and the stage as if their inhabitants were God, or perhaps archangels, and in one of these boxes, normally set aside for the use of the Harkness family, sat Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo and her son, Lord John Benjamin Solo, who was cutting a strange figure, seated uncomfortably by his mother's side. Faces were turning to look, and he felt them as keenly as a lance: his prominent scar had garnered mostly sympathy, which he wanted even less than to be at the opera.
> 
> "Do try to look as if you are not stuffed full of iron rods," said Lady Solo, leaning over and delicately murmuring behind her fan.

"Oh, Rachel!" gasped Miss Pava, nearly knocking into her backstage. "Have you _heard_?"

"Have I heard _what_ , Josie?" asked Rey, foot busily twisting in the chalk-box. "And for heaven's sake, don't tell me how that usher Finley was found with Miss Tico, for I have heard it a hundred times already and the taste of the scandal has left my mouth entirely—"

"No, you goose," said Miss Pava, black eyes snapping in a delirium of excitement. "Miss Petrov has got _dreadful_ indigestion and can't leave the lavatory."

"But it's only an hour until the curtain rises," said Rey blankly, not understanding.

"Yes! Madame Holdo was very clear. You're to open as prima ballerina tonight."

"Oh, my _God_ ," said Rey, who had heretofore strictly observed the third commandment, and nearly fell out of the box. "I _can't_ —"

"You can and you must, so go to the dressing-rooms and get the costume on, Madame says!" Josie Pava took her by the hand and nearly dragged her back through the labyrinth of halls back to the wardrobe, where Rey allowed herself, half-stunned, to be undressed out of her chorus costume and re-dressed into the proper costume.

She knew the part very well—she was a quick study and even Miss Petrov had approved very well of her form: they were similar in shape and appearance, save for Miss Petrov being an inch taller and as lithe as a greyhound—so why was her heart beating like a trapped bird in her chest? The skirt was put on, the corset laced up, the headpiece and heavy stage makeup expertly applied—Rey felt a child, a silly one dressing in clothes far too old and sophisticated for her. _But that's ridiculous_ , she thought, panicking a little, _I have studied and studied and of course I can do it, of course I can!_

"Curtains up in half an hour!" shouted one of the stagehands, poking his head into the room.

Well, there was nothing for it. Miss Rachel Nowak turned away, forgetting to look at herself in the mirror on the way out, and ran for the chalk-box again.

* * *

Inside the grand lobby of the Metropolitan Opera, a veritable mass of furs, jewels, silks, and satins was flooding into the building from the street: exiting automobiles, exiting carriages. The Opera had grown from that most ancient art of war, that of _class_ : the Old Money of the Gilded Age had been entirely loath to allow the newly-fledged industrialist multimillionaires into their coveted circles at the Academy of Music—so the Roosevelts and the Morgans and the Vanderbilts, frustrated at their exclusion, had built their own Opera House, and within three years the Academy of Music had folded entirely under the crushing weight of Net Loss.

The three tiers of private boxes overlooked the floor seats and the stage as if their inhabitants were God, or archangels, and in one of these boxes, normally set aside for the use of the Harkness family, sat Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo and her son, Lord John Benjamin Solo, who was cutting a strange figure, seated uncomfortably by his mother's side. Faces were turning to look, and he felt them as keenly as a lance: his prominent scar had garnered mostly sympathy, which he wanted even less than to be at the opera.

"Do try to look as if you are not stuffed full of iron rods," said Lady Solo, leaning over and delicately murmuring behind her fan.

Lord Solo swept a look at the box next to them, and sure enough, a fascinated-looking young woman with a delicate face and an elegant long neck was giving him a surprised look before having the grace to nod at him and turn away to her companions. "I believe," he said to his mother, "I might have to become an eccentric recluse and go around wearing a dressing-gown with an exotic bird on my shoulder: it might get me fewer sideways glances."

His mother swatted him with her fan, mouth twisting in suppressed amusement. "'Go _about'_ not 'go _around'_. And no, you shall do no such thing. Don't be ridiculous," she said. "Look, the lights are dimming."

Slightly gratified at making his mother break face, even for a moment, Solo settled into his velvet seat and watched the curtain rise. The first act began, and he did not pay much attention as Carmen made her entrance and sang her _habanera_ on the unbridled nature of love—

 _Love._ Why on earth had he come to this bloody opera? He stole a glance at his mother, but Lady Solo sat as still and calm as water, watching through her opera-glasses. Solo turned his attention back with some difficulty to the stage, and watched as Carmen threw a flower to Don José, teasing: as Micaela told Don José he must wed her by the wishes of his mother, as Carmen was arrested for attacking a woman, as José began to fall for Carmen and not Micaela, who his mother desired him to marry.

Was this some joke his mother was playing on him? He could see only himself in Don José, and Miss Nowak in Carmen. A temptress—a woman who toyed with and tempted men: a man only trying to get through his life in confusion, taken in by—

No. He was being a maudlin fool, for _he_ had sought out Miss Nowak under his own volition and she had done nothing whatsoever to encourage his affections. Solo leaned back in his seat and tried to breathe evenly as Act One ended and Act Two began.

Carmen and her friends sat in the tavern, entertaining soldiers, and a great chorus and procession broke out, announcing the arrival of the great _toreador_ Escamillo. The procession consisted of ballet dancers, men and women, headed up by a matched pair of dancers in elaborate headpieces. The man was an olive-skinned, handsome dancer with the look of a Spaniard about him; the woman was a small, lithe thing with perfect form as she danced, her rounded shoulders—

Her—

The arms of Solo's seat creaked, his fingers wrapped so tightly around them that his knuckles were white. He _knew_ her; knew her in a single, blazing, white-hot instant of mingled rage and shock, and he did not even hear his mother leaning over to ask whatever the matter was: Miss Rachel Nowak was on the bloody stage. Had he made a noise? He did not know.

Solo snatched up his program and squinted at the names of the principals, the singers, all the way down to the dancers, and saw the name "Miss Natalia Petrov" under _Prima Ballerina_ , and it made no sense, none at all: she surely had not changed her name to perform? She had said she would go by Rey Nowak—unless she _had_ changed her name after all—but why would she have done such a thing, unless—unless—

Unless she had not wanted him to find her.

Some unidentifiable emotion rent him from head to foot. He wanted to weep, or rage, or leap onto the stage and demand answers, performance be damned—but the dance had ended, and the audience applauded as the dancers all made their exits, and she was gone again. Solo looked down at the program again, and saw that the dancers would not make any reappearance in the opera. She was behind the curtain, even now: she was in the same _building_ as he. She was here, yet as untouchable as if she was on the other side of the ocean. He wanted to leave the box and go home; to force his way backstage and snatch her by the arm and demand answers; to fall to his knees and beg her to—to—he did not know what.

Intermission began, and the lights came on, and he leaned forward, staring at the curtain as his mother turned to him. "What a lovely performance," she mused, setting down her opera glasses. "Especially the dancers in Act Two, do you not think so?" Something in her tone caught his attention, and he stared at her.

"You knew," he said, shocked. "You _knew_ she would be here—"

"Of course I did. Where on earth do you think I got the tickets?" His mother had the look of a cat in cream about her.

Fury rose in him. How dare she meddle in his affairs, after he had been doing his best to put the girl out of his mind? "What the _hell_ do you mean by that?"

Lady Solo's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Language, please, Ben. The young lady came calling and gave them to me as a gift."

"She came to the _house_?" Solo exclaimed, stunned. When? How? Why had no one _told_ him—?

His mother looked nonchalant. "I thought you would have been pleased to see her again. If you are not, we can, of course, go home—"

"We are not going home," he said with some difficulty. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but he was too angry. "I am going backstage to find the girl and ask what the devil she meant by all of this." The look on his face must have been enough to make a storm quail, for Lady Solo caught his expression and remained silent. Solo stood without another word and left the box.

* * *

Rey Nowak sat on the floor in her little dressing-room that rightfully belonged to Miss Petrov, taking her dancing-shoes off and stretching her legs. The costume was a little long on her, but not so much so as to be noticeable from the seats or to impede her dancing, and her legs felt daringly bare: just below the knee to the ankle, what a scandal! Her headpiece had already been removed, and she had laughed at her reflection in the mirror as she walked in: the pale powder, the scarlet lips, the darkened brows and the rouge on her cheeks all made her look a very funny picture, and she was looking forward to scrubbing herself clean.

What was even better was that Miss Petrov had seemingly recovered a little, and would likely be able to dance the part by tomorrow, so she would not have to do such a nerve-wracking performance again. She had seen the critics in their seats—or thought she had, anyway, the lights had been so bright!—and thought of them writing about her stunning debut on the stage—but that was silly, of course, she had only done her best, and they would likely not even notice her—

She suddenly had a tickling, tingling feeling upon the back of her neck that raised the hairs there and told her she was being watched. Rey turned about on her backside, intending to shout at Mr. Dameron, the prima ballerina's dance partner, for he was always laughing at her and making fun, but it was not Mr. Dameron at all, not in the slightest. Her belly turned to ice and her mind went frightfully blank.

Lord John Benjamin Solo stood in the doorway to her dressing-room. He took up nearly all the space from lintel to threshold, and both his fists were clenched tightly at his sides: the scar on his face healed, but still an ugly, twisted thing of ruined flesh. He was in immaculate black and white evening-dress, and his hair, which surely had been slicked and combed at some point, was falling into his eyes: he looked the perfect picture of barely-tamed fury, and the expression on his face made her leap to her feet and back away, scrambling for the costume-rack to hide behind, even though he had not moved an inch.

There she remained, staring at him over the tops of the hangers on the clothing-bar. Neither of them spoke. "L-Lord Solo," she stammered finally.

His voice was tight and dark. "Miss Nowak. Or should I say Miss Petrov? Or whatever bloody name you're going by nowadays?"

"I—what?" said Rey, entirely at a loss. This was certainly not the direction she had expected the conversation to take—if she could have been said to expect the conversation at all in the first place, which she certainly could not.

Solo's jaw rippled with tight muscle, his left eye twitching. "You changed your name. Was it to hide from me? Or the product of a flight of ill-advised fancy? Don't deny it, it's on every program."

"I did no such thing," she snapped, incensed that he would even suggest such a thing. "That's Natalia Petrov, the _prima ballerina_ : I am her stand-in and she came down with the indigestion two hours ago and could not perform and they had no time to change the names on the programs, for they were already all printed—why, look in the back and you shall see my name there, with the other understudies!"

Solo was silent. Then he put one hand into his pocket, fished out the program he had, and looked in the back. His ears turned crimson, and he looked back up at her, putting the program back into his pocket. "Come out from behind that thing," he said.

"I will not," she said defiantly. "You're not even supposed to be back here, you know: it's restricted to patrons of the Opera—"

"Come out from behind that rack or I swear to God I'll drag you out by force," he said, and his tone was black and low.  Rey swallowed and stepped out, forgetting half her legs and her arms were bare until she was standing to the side. His eyes swept across her and down, and back up to her face. "You will explain what you meant by giving my mother tickets."

Rey felt as if she had swallowed a stone. "I—I thought to extend an invitation: she had mentioned she enjoyed the theater, and it was not hard to look you up—"

"Oh, yes," he said acerbically, "it was not difficult at all, which is why it took you two months to do it, is that right?"

Rey went scarlet, which did her complexion no favors under the paint. "You left me," she said coldly. "No, do not deny it, either, sir. You promised me everything under the sun and you _left_ me, and did not seek to find me at all. I did not know you _did_ try until I called on your lady mother, and I was so touched by her account of your affection towards me that I thought perhaps you might attend my performance, like you had _promised_."

Solo's face was inscrutable. He took a step forward, and she took one back, keeping a distance of eight feet between them. "It was never my intent to cause you any distress," he said.

"No?" she spat, her blood up by now; all the stresses and turmoil of the past months spilling over at last. "No, for you came to the ferry—for I am sure it was you I saw through the window of my streetcar—and you did not move an inch as you watched me go—"

"You saw me and you did not say a word?" Solo demanded, and took a step forward, advancing on her. She remained frozen.

"I thought—you did not find me on the ship, and I did not know until later it was because of the law: I thought since you had waited so long and only came in the night, in the rain—well, it is ridiculous, but I thought for a moment you might have come to kill me!" Her chin jutted out in defiance. "And—and take back the ring you gave me!" she added. "And when you did not seek me out for months I—I thought you had gone away and forgotten me."

Lord Solo had the grace to blush. "I would never forget you in a thousand years," he said, in that same, tight little voice. "I thought you had run off and decided not to seek me out at all."

"It's rather hard to seek one out when one is of an entirely different class," said Rey angrily. "Why, when I called on your mother I took pains to look as respectable as a governess, and her maid tried to make me go round to the back door as if I was a milkman. You know absolutely nothing of what it's like to be someone like me, sir, not in the slightest, and you should have sought me out as soon as you were able, and you _didn't_ ; what on earth was I supposed to think?"

Solo did not move an inch, and he looked suddenly as if he might be sick with shame. "You—you are right," he said. "I know nothing at all, and I have been a greater fool that I have ever been in my life. I expect you have found another man, as you are a lively woman with your youth still ahead of you, and I should not have come at all, or sought you out."

"Of course I haven't got another beau," said Rey, going white in the face. "I accepted your proposal, didn't I, you ninny? I assume—I considered myself still engaged, after a fashion—I suppose in the way a widow considers herself married, anyway: only when one really thinks of it and not all the time. But if you don't—if you wish to tell me otherwise, then I—I shall accept it, of course. That decision must be yours."

* * *

Solo cold not think of a single thing to say. Here she stood, the object of his affections upon which had been pinned every hope he had had for the future, for his dreams, and he did not know whether he wanted to weep or rage or storm out without speaking. In polite society, he would have graciously apologized for his misunderstanding, and swept a bow, and all would have been cleanly over in a matter of seconds. This—this was not polite society: this was a man and a half-costumed woman shouting at each other in a tiny dressing-room, both on the verge of tears, and it was on his shoulders to decide whether to cut her free from the engagement he had tied her to. Of course it was _his_ decision; it had been his proposal, his family's ring.

He could not make such a choice. She was right: he knew nothing of her struggles or her life or her station, as much as he liked to think himself a man of the world. How could he possibly demand her hand a second time? How could he ask such a thing of her, when she had just begun to fulfill her own dreams, embark upon her own life, pursue her own interests? It was not fair. It was not _fair_ , and the injustice of it all came crashing down on him: every repressed emotion he had felt over the past two months was boiling over a thousand-fold and screaming for release.

Solo acted on instinct: he turned, pulled his fist back, and drove it into the center of a cracked mirror over a dressing-table. The glass shattered, and he felt the deep sting of cuts in his knuckles, but he did not stop: he hit it again and again until blood-smeared glass littered the table and Rey was flying at him, shouting in outrage to stop, _stop—_

She caught his arm and dragged it away, pulling at him with surprising strength, and he realized belatedly that he was crying, crying like an over-exhausted child. "Your hand," she was saying, at a loss, and his sight had gone blurred with tears. "Don't hurt yourself anymore, sir, please—"

"You deserve a better man than me," he managed, and sank into the chair she pushed him into. "Miss Nowak—I am _sorry_ —"

She was going for linen bandages, wrapping his cut and bleeding hand in them, winding them expertly with deft little hands. "Your mother said you were sunk deep into a dreadfully sullen mood, but I did not think you had moved to smashing mirrors," she said.

"My mother ought to mind her own business for once in her life," he said bitterly.

Miss Nowak tied down the bandage and flung his hand away sharply. "You ought to thank her," she snapped, "for if she had not provoked you to come, you would never have seen me again—unless that's what you _want_ , of course—"

Solo heaved up out of in his chair and caught her by the cheek with his good hand. "What I _want_ ," he echoed darkly, and Miss Nowak's eyes went huge. He kissed her soundly on her red-painted mouth. It was not a gentle kiss: it was something desperate and possessive. He ended it when her hands found his jacket-lapels; he held her rudely at arm's length. "Christ. I do not—I should not have—" Making demands on her life and her hand was one thing: making demands upon her body was quite another. What a lecher he was making of himself: by all rights she ought to box his ears and kick him into the corridor, but there were no adverse emotions in her eyes, only tears, and one dripped down her cheek, painting a freckled trail through the white paint.

Her voice, when she spoke, was tremulous, uncertain. "Do you _not_ want—?"

"No," he said roughly, and pulled her back, not caring that his response had been entirely ungrammatical or that her make-up was smearing about his face: Miss Nowak was _his_ for now, and no one else's, and that was the most wondrous of miracles he could imagine. Her mouth was warm and inviting, her tongue slipping across his with a ferocity matching his. Solo's hands found her hair, her bare shoulders, her waist: he dragged her to him close and breathed in lilacs and chalk. His body roused as it had not done at all in the past few weeks, and he was overcome with a terrible, animal desire to take her _here_ , _now_ , on the floor if they had to, or against the wall like a pair of secret lovers. His clumsy right hand, throbbing and bandaged, found her hair and seized it as he turned his face into her throat and kissed her there.

Miss Nowak was trembling, her hands fluttering up and down his waistcoat as if she was afraid to touch it. "Ben," she whimpered, and it might as well have been a command screamed out: he wanted to obey her every whim; he wanted to do as she willed: she was all that was good and honest and he was nothing, a man with a ruined face who had broken her heart.

"Yes," he said.

"The door—"

Ah, yes. There was that small problem, a thing shunted to the side of his mind for the last three minutes. Solo kicked out with his foot and the old door slammed shut with a bang, rattling the electric light in its casing, and resumed kissing her. He pressed his body to hers closely; he could not help it, and her eyes flickered up towards his as she felt him hard against her.

"I have to be on stage for the last bow," she whispered. "Thirty—thirty minutes, I think—"

"You flatter me," he said against her cheek. "I won't take long. I swear. May I—can I—?"

She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded, a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, then fumbled with her underthings and looked about in vain for a place to lie or sit. Finding none (the old dressing-room chair would likely go to pieces if they put any weight together on it at all) she turned to him in abashed confusion. "I—there isn't a place to—"

"Here," he said, guiding her to the wall and turning her about to press her front against it. His left hand crept beneath her delicate skirt and found her naked thighs, then her backside, and dipped between the twin lean curves, eliciting a little choked gasp from her. "Hush," he said softly. "We must be quiet as church mice, or your friends will hear."

Titillating and filthy, the idea of standing while engaging in this kind of thing. He was sure to be clumsy at it, but he did not care: Miss Nowak was trembling as if she wanted him very much, and that was all he cared about.

Oh, how he wanted her: oh, how he loathed himself for it all.

* * *

"I don't think mice engage in this sort of behavior in—ooh— _church_ —" Rey managed, and spread her legs a little as Solo's fingers stroked at her quickly. This was not going to be a long and gentle process, but regardless of that, she found herself warming and wetting and opening under his hand, eager and ready. _Please,_ she prayed silently, _let nobody come to the door looking for me._

"Not a squeak from you, Miss Mouse," he said softly, and she was not sure when he had managed to open his trousers, but he was already pushing at her bluntly, and she curved her lower back a little to ease the way.  He was pressing just inside, not quite _in_ but close, and he was making rough little noises in her ear—then he was _inside_ , and it was everything she had wanted, a thousand times better than she had remembered: she clapped her own hand over her mouth in a bid to be quiet as he pressed flush against her body, shaking a little and standing on her tiptoes. "God," he gasped, and she thought he sounded like he might cry. "Don't—don't move; not an inch—"

Rey shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, and he began to set a rhythm. It was an awkward position, and he slipped out once with a curse, but got himself righted again, and soon she was shaking, her thighs sore, as she took her hand away to brace herself on the wall. That, of course, left her mouth uncovered, and high little noises shook out of her every time he moved. "Ben—" she gasped, hands balled into fists against the old plaster wall. " _Ben_ —" No, this was not going to be like the first night at all, but it did not matter; he felt wonderful, and she never wanted him to stop.

His left hand covered her mouth, and he gripped her tight. She moaned through her nose, and it sent him over utterly: Solo let out a groan like a dying man and buried himself deep inside her, shuddering out his climax and bracing himself on the wall and on her. She listened to his breathing slow, but he made no move to draw away, and she felt a hot drop of something on her bare shoulder, then another. He was crying again.

"It's all right," she said helplessly, turning her head. "It's—it's all right—"

Solo let go of her and pressed his mouth to her shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked, voice thick.

"Of course I am," she said, and turned to face him as he removed himself and stepped back. He was not looking at her, his cheeks wet with tears, and he tucked himself away and did up his trousers. It somehow did not seem appropriate to call him _Ben_ anymore. "My lord? You're—what's the matter?"

Solo's dark eyes found hers, then. "Heaven knows," he said heavily. "I will not force you to marry me, Miss Nowak. I also will not force you to leave me. The decision will _not_ be mine, by God: as every decision I have made so far has led to wreck and ruin by all counts, I am putting this one in far more capable hands. If you truly wish to accept the proposal I offered you that night, then you may call at Harkness House any time between now and the end of the summer: we are going back to England after that."

Silence hung in the air between them. Rey stepped forward on slightly-weak legs. "I don't believe for a moment," she said quickly, hot-faced, "that you purposely killed your father. I believe you did it on accident, and were not at fault at all, and you ought to allow yourself that."

Lord Solo's eyes filled with tears once more, and he dashed them away with a pass of his large hand. "You are very kind," he said hoarsely, and turned toward the door. "If I do not see you again, Miss Nowak…" His voice trailed off, and he looked at her with a strangely undecipherable expression. "Well. You know."

"Yes," she said rather hollowly, "I do. Good evening, Lord Solo. Please—will you give my regards to your lady mother?"

"I will," he said, and the light seemed to go out of his eyes. He turned, opened the door, and walked out into the hall without a second look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I know, I know, I'm the worst. I'm SORRY.   
> -The ensemble dancers return temporarily!  
> -Technically, the ballet part for Carmen wasn't actually made until I want to say...the middle of the century, so I took some creative liberties with the timing. Also, the Met Opera is still running to this day, and everything about the Academy of Music and the Old and New Money battling over it is 100% true. We can all only aspire to be so petty over the opera that we build our own theater and drive our enemies into the ground.  
> -Check out Chapter One, and the lovely cover art for this fic made by the inimitable eclecticmuses!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were no other letters, and it was July 20th. They would depart in a week, and there had been no sign of Miss Nowak. Of course, she had been mentioned in the papers: the rising star of the Metropolitan Opera, the little Titanic survivor who had forged on against all odds. Lady Solo was rather pleased that the girl hadn't given a single interview to any paper either; a decent head on those shoulders, indeed.

_Miss Rachel Maria Nowak_  
_St. Agnes Residence, Manhattan_  
 _New York City NY_

_28 May 1912_

_Dear Miss Nowak-_

_I pray you forgive my letter if it is unwelcome, for I am well aware the young do not care to have their affairs spoken about or meddled in by the older among them, but I felt I must write to you at least once before we embark on the journey back to England: first to thank you very much for the gift of the opera tickets, which I neglected to do before—and secondly to tell you the events of that evening that transpired after my son departed your presence, for I thought it would benefit you to know, and as you have not called in the past week or so, I can only assume the words exchanged._

_Well—Ben left the Metropolitan entirely, and I did not know he had left until the performance was over and all had taken their bows, the curtain shut, the prodigious Attendees departing: I had suspected, as he had not returned to the box. He also had not taken the automobile back, as I discovered when I went to the portico. I have not yet divined how he returned to Harkness House, but I must assume he walked, for when I entered the foyer of the house his shoes were there, wet and street-mucked, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was told by the staff that he had come in with a bandaged hand, gone up into his rooms, shut the door, and ordered that nobody disturb him—and that he had told them to give me your regards. I was greatly distressed: he often falls into these black Moods, but they are wont to pass in less than a fortnight—the one before this, which I told you of when last you called, went on for months. I very much worry he is not well._

_Of course I shall not impose upon you to come a-calling, my dear Rachel; do not mistake me. An hour of sunshine in a garden cannot cure the influenza—and so should it be if you were to come: a brief moment of happiness, perhaps, or consternation enough to stun him out of his temper, but it would not get to the root of the true malady at all. No: I write only because at heart I truly suppose I am a meddlesome old besom and confess myself curious, morbidly, to know what on earth transpired between the pair of you at the Opera. When he had recognised you on the stage, he had a sort of fit, and went rigid and pale as a ghost—then left me looking like thunder, and that was the last time he spoke to me, saying he was going to find you and ask you what you meant by giving me the tickets. Please do not feel, however, as if I pressure you greatly: I feel myself a piece of Straw caught between two winds and knowing not where to turn._

_I do, however, remain still, very sincerely—_

_Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo_

 

* * *

_Lady E.L. O. Solo_  
_Harkness House, 5 th Avenue_  
_Manhattan New York_  
  
_10 June 1912_

_Dear Lady Solo—_

_I am very sorry this reply was written so very late as I found myself having nearly not a moment at all to sit & write for want of time between rehearsing—I am also sorry to hear of Lord Solo's complaint & of how you must feel caught up between us in all the mess like straw as you said. Well, I shall write the truth as far as I can plain and simple._

_His lordship came backstage & was very angry with me & I was frightened. We exchanged fierce words I am afraid then realised in all the furor that both had mistaken the others intentions—by intentions of course I mean, why he had not found me after the commotion of the sinking & why I had not found him. My obstacle of course was the issue of Class which (no offense to your Ladyship) had obstructed me every step & made me unable to find him—then he thought most reasonably under the circumstances that I had decided to flaunt his proposal to me—so both of us thought the other had spurned us. Hence the fierce words. (He smashed a mirror also—that was the cause of the bandaged hand.)_

_So. Passions ran quite high and he informed me then that I must decide myself whether or not I wished to wed him & if I did I ought to come before the summer's end. He said he could not make the decision as every decision he had tried to make went to ruin so it ought to be me. Then he left my dressing-room & it was as if he was never there at all. I confess that during the curtain call I looked very hard up at the boxes but I could not make him out—after all the lights were very bright. _

_After that I fell into a mood of my own I suppose but mine are not so Byronic as Lord Solo's—I only threw myself into rehearsing & did not allow myself to think of anything or anyone else for weeks as I fear that is my way of things. Then I received your letter & I did burst into tears after I had read it for it touched me to the heart. If I thought it might help I would come certainly to Harkness House & call on you, but I am not sure it would. I fear he might fly into a passion or worse sink deeper into his mood but you are his mother so you know perhaps which would be more likely. I do not know what to do in the slightest & I am very sorry I cannot answer you satisfactorily. Also you are very welcome to the tickets & any others you might like_

_I do remain your humble servant_

_Miss Rachel M Nowak_

 

* * *

_Miss Rachel Maria Nowak_  
_St. Agnes Residence, Manhattan_  
 _New York City NY_

_17 June 1912_

_My dear Miss Nowak—_

_Please do not think your letter Unsatisfactory in the least. Quite the contrary: it was illuminating to a great degree, but you have only left out a great answer to only one question, the absence of which makes me think perhaps that you yourself do not know the answer to it—the question, of course, being the one my son asked you. I do not, of course, demand an answer: that must be given to my son and my son alone whether by omission or by word, but I encourage you to think very hard about your answer before you give it. I appreciate also your explanation of the bandaged hand. We shook Ben out of his temper for a moment and brought a physician to the house to tend to him: glass cuts are very nasty and not to be trifled with. He, of course, sank back into his melancholic state as soon as the good doctor had left, but at least he shall not die of an infection._

_I shall also tell you this: that I too was young once, and in love: additionally that I have never seen Ben as happy as he was when he used to speak of you to me in passing. Happiness is often a fleeting thing, but I have come to realize in my age that life also is a fleeting thing, and perhaps happiness is all we have in the end._

_We shall depart for London July 28 th precisely at 3 in the afternoon. _

_I remain ever your_

_Lady Solo_

 

* * *

_Lady Solo_  
_Harkness House, 5 th Avenue_  
 _Manhattan New York_

_23 June 1912_

_Dear Lady Solo_

_Thank you for your reply. I will think on all you said with great attention. Please do not think poorly of me any way I choose for I am afraid I will think ill of myself for any choice I make & knowing one person does not think badly of me will be a great comfort in any circumstance. I am very sorry this letter is not much longer_

_Very sincerely your little friend_

_Rachel Nowak_

 

* * *

_Miss Rachel Maria Nowak_  
_St. Agnes Residence, Manhattan_  
 _New York City NY_

_27 June 1912_

_Dearest Rachel,_

_Of course I shall not think badly of you either way, for if you choose to accept, I shall have gained a sensible and capable daughter, and if you choose not to, why, you could hardly be faulted: my son is quite as temperamental as much as he is gentle and serious. It would take a very particular sort of woman indeed to be a wife to him, and that I have resigned myself to by now: someone with nerves of steel and an iron will to match his. Even now he has taken to storming about the upstairs growling at the maids and his valet as if he were an angry bear—when he is not, of course, busy locking himself in the study doing Heaven knows what in utter silence. At least it is a change of sorts._

_You ought not feel obligated to reply. The choice before you is a difficult one, and you ought to make it without the distraction of writing back and forth to this silly old woman._

_I remain very cordially your friend_

_Lady Solo_

 

* * *

Harkness House had been built in the middle nineteenth century for some wealthy industrialist whose name has been lost now to the annals of history before changing hands again and again as fortunes rose and fell over the past fifty years. Its great brownstones and finely done window-casings, its lintels and gates and citified landscaping, its short path up to the fine walnut door: all spoke of New Money and the Gilded Age.

Yes, it was a fine town-house, but did not compare to Queen's End, Lady Solo thought as she sat in the drawing room reading letters and trying to pretend that she was not anxiously awaiting the postman. That fine home had been in their family for a hundred years, and sat on a most prestigious street in London, directly up from Kensington Gardens, nearly in the shadow of Buckingham Palace: its white stone—the same white stone that had been quarried to build Skywalker House, family legend had it—had been strangely unmarked by the polluted air of industry, but marked beautifully with the climbing wisteria that had been allowed to trail about the pillars and walls and balconies. Inside: eight bedrooms, a ballroom, a grand dining room, a library, a sitting room, a morning room, and more: it put Harkness House to shame.

Mary came in with the post and offered it to Lady Solo with a polite curtsy, interrupting her musings. "Your letters, ma'am," she said.

Lady Solo thought the way Americans said _ma'am_ made her feel as though she was being bleated at through a nose: _baa baa_ , and missed very much her own maid at home. _I have been here too long,_ she thought, and picked up the letters. "Thank you, Mary," she said, and began to go through them. One from a barrister, one from Mrs. Harkness—that would be opened later—and one from a newspaper, inquiring about an interview.

Good Lord, would these Americans never cease hounding the victims? She proposed to ignore it. There were no other letters, and it was July 20th. They would depart in a week, and there had been no sign of Miss Nowak. Of course, she had been mentioned in the papers: the rising star of the Metropolitan Opera, the little Titanic survivor who had forged on against all odds. Lady Solo was rather pleased that the girl hadn't given a single interview to any paper either; a decent head on those shoulders, indeed.

She picked up the letter from Mrs. Harkness and began to read it: it was a polite and warm missive that inquired after their health and hoped they were enjoying the house, and informed Lady Solo that it would indeed be placed on the market on the first of August as per the previous letter. There was also a post-script, saying that Clarisse had found another beau, and was very happy: he was the nephew of a steel tycoon in Pittsburgh, had more money than sense, traveled almost continually, and was deaf in one ear: _ergo,_ the pair of them looked forward to a long and joyful union.

Lady Solo set the letter down and sighed. Well, at least someone in the whole sorry mess had gotten a happy ending. Ben had been shut up in the study for nearly eighteen hours and she did not know what he was doing. She looked at the clock. It was nearly five, and time for her to pop into the kitchen and inquire about dinner preparations—or at least pretend to: the cook here ruled the kitchen with an iron fist. She got out of her chair and smoothed her skirt, and had just taken a few steps toward the door to the hall when two things happened at once.

Firstly, there was a great and unholy crash from the study, as if something had been dropped on the floor or perhaps a window had broken. Secondly, three delicate, quick raps from the knocker on the walnut door rang through the foyer.

Lady Solo, realizing that the study looked out onto the front street, knew at once that these two events were connected, and without waiting to call for Mary or the butler, strode herself to the front door, unlatched it, and flung it wide.

Outside on the step, wearing a sensible walking-dress of gray linen, her chin set in resolve below pale lips and reddened eyes, stood Miss Rachel Maria Nowak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -We love a cliffhanger ending to a chapter, right?


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good afternoon, Lord Solo," said Miss Nowak, as if she had rehearsed it. Lady Solo noted that Miss Nowak did not look the picture of health and happiness either: her face was slightly thinner and had the pallid cast of a ghost, but her entire being seemed to thrum with life and determination in spite of that.
> 
> "You," said Solo again, but his voice sounded as if it might shake to pieces. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Lady Solo," said Miss Nowak very quickly, "I am very sorry for the intrusion—"

"Not at all, come in at once," said Lady Solo, and nearly pulled the girl in by the arm in an effort to get her inside. "I was just about to ask Cook what she had planned for dinner: you are welcome to stay if you like. Correct me if I am mistaken, but I assume you are come to see Lord Solo?" She took the girl's hat herself and hung it on the stand.

"I—" Miss Nowak's eyes darted toward the study as another sound, this one like a heavy thud, came from behind the French doors. "Is—is that—?"

"My son, yes. Either that, or we have got a ghoul in the study," said Lady Solo with a sideways glance. "As you knocked, there was a great commotion inside, and I have not burst in yet to ascertain the cause."

Miss Nowak looked back at her. "I ought to go in, then," she said, with a tone that suggested she was proclaiming her intent to cross the Styx.

She was, however, saved the trouble. The double doors opened with a bang, and the figure of Lord Solo appeared between them, both hands fast closed on the handles, his shoulders hunched forward as he shoved them open. He straightened, and his eyes fixed first on his mother and then on Miss Nowak, and they did not leave her face.

"You," Solo said, sounding hoarse. He was dressed in only a shirt, open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves: his trousers were wrinkled, his hair was loose and had grown out even more—he would have been able to club it like a gentleman of his great-grandfather's generation. Solo's face was drawn, as well; the stresses of sleepless nights and days were written there in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the hollows under his cheekbones. He had lost some weight, and his beard had begun to grow out again.

"Good afternoon, Lord Solo," said Miss Nowak, as if she had rehearsed it. Lady Solo noted that Miss Nowak did not look the picture of health and happiness either: her face was slightly thinner and had the pallid cast of a ghost, but her entire being seemed to thrum with life and determination in spite of that.

" _You_ ," said Solo again, but his voice sounded as if it might shake to pieces. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I—" Clearly Miss Nowak had not accounted for this rather uncouth greeting. "Why, I came to—to—" Her cheeks went scarlet.

Lady Solo interrupted. "Perhaps you might want to speak to my son alone. In the study." She gestured, and gave Ben a steely-eyed look. "I will be in the sitting-room when you are finished speaking."

"Yes, Mother," said Solo, and turned about, retreating into the dark room. Lady Solo watched Miss Nowak hesitate and square her shoulders before following him in and shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Rey's eyes adjusted as she blinked in the dimness. It was a very grand study, with parquet floors and fine carpets, but fusty, and dark except for the beam of light pouring in from the crack between the curtains. She took a step forward and her shoe crunched on something.

"Don't move," said Solo, a pale shape in the gloom. "I dropped a decanter."

"Oh," she said, pausing in her step. "Why?"

"I saw you at the door and thought I had gone mad," he replied, from somewhere over by the window. He flung the curtains open and Rey shielded her eyes, squinting. "Now," he said, "we can talk without the staff or my mother listening at the crack. What do you mean by coming here?"

"You mean you do not know?" she asked, still standing in the center of the floor. He was leaning against the desk, his arms crossed over his breast as he looked at her. "I—I've come to accept your proposal." The ensuing silence was awful. She thought for a wild moment that she had said the wrong thing by mistake, that she must flee into the street and never come back. "You said I must choose, so I have chosen."

"You certainly took a long time about it," he said, sounding half-strangled.

"It wasn't exactly a decision I could make in a week," she said angrily. "You asked me to leave behind all I have worked toward and wanted for years! For goodness' sake, these things take _thinking_ about—"

Solo ran his hand across his eyes. His fingers were trembling. "Christ," he said weakly. " _Christ_. I've been here all this time thinking you were not coming, and being surer of it every day. Could you not have at least _written_ to me?"

"I wrote to your mother!" protested Rey. "She said you were in a dreadful state, and I did not know if my sudden appearance would worsen your mood or not, and—"

"You wrote to my _mother_?" said Solo, white in the face.

"She wrote to me _first_! Was I supposed to never reply at all?" Rey threw her hands up in consternation. "You are the most bloody contrary man on God's earth, Lord Solo: nothing I do is correct, everything is an excuse for you to fall into a pit of black despair—I come to tell you I want to marry you and your response is to _chastise_ me! Well, if you do not want me to wed you, just say so, and I shall go out that door at once and never—"

Solo stumbled across the room to her. She had only enough time to react by stepping back, and he fell on his knees, head bowed in supplication. "Don't go," he whispered. "Please. Rachel—Rey, I am sorry. I know I am not—not an easy-tempered man, or a good one. I say things I do not mean in anger, and then am too stubborn to make amends. I fear I would not be a good husband at all, to anyone, and you do not deserve—you deserve a man with an easy smile and a more consistent temperament."

"You are a good man," said Rey, practically shaking with outrage. "You _are_ a good man, and you always have been: I am only a poor dancer and I—I—oh, sir, I'm afraid I've kept something from you—" Tears welled up in her eyes, and she brushed them away angrily. "It is not fair that you tell me your secrets and I do not tell you mine!"

"What on earth can you mean?" asked Solo, looking up at her. "There is nothing you can tell me that will make my affection for you wane in the slightest."

"I—I am a bastard," said Rey, and tears flowed fresh. "My _maman_ —she had me, she raised me alone, and I never knew my father; I didn't have a s-surname as a child and took one when I had to buy my ticket on the ship. _Nowak_ —it means _new_ , because that was what I wanted: to be all new and—and to start again—in America—" here, she could not speak anymore, and broke down in sobs.

Solo reached up and took her by the elbows, and gathered her down close to his breast where he knelt. "I knew it must be a taken name," he murmured into her hair, "it is not French at all—that was the first clue."

"You n-never asked—"

"Of course not," said Solo. "It is your own business where you came from, after all: and at any rate I do not give a damn that you were born out of wedlock."

Rey cried harder and Solo awkwardly rocked her side to side, the both of them on the floor like a pair of children. "But if I—if it gets out, if I marry you, the scandal—"

"I don't give a damn about scandals either," said Solo. "You already know that: come now."

Rey laughed: a wet, choked little noise, and her hands closed fast on the sides of his shirt. "I suppose I do," she said. "So—you do want to marry me still?"

He kissed her head and brought her back up to stand in front of him, holding her by the elbows. "There is nothing in the world that would make me happier," he said softly.

She sagged with relief. "Thank God," she whispered, her head bent. "I thought I wouldn't have got my courage up by the time you left for England, and at any rate I already gave notice at the Met."

"Thank God you did," said Solo, and embraced her tightly, pressing his cheek to her hair. "Come; we'll tell Mama and after that—I suppose we ought to get your things packed up."

Rey clung to him tightly. "I don't have much at all," she said, her chin tucked into his chest, "only my dancing-shoes, really, and my clothes."

"All the better," he said, and led her out into the foyer, where Lady Solo appeared in the doorway of the sitting-room, looking as if she did not know what to expect as she hurried up to them.

"So?" she asked, eyes flashing from her son to Rey.

"I have asked Miss Nowak to marry me. She has accepted my proposal." Ben's grip tightened on Rey's hand.

Lady Solo let out a breath and shut her eyes. "Thank the good Lord above," she said mildly. "I was beginning to think you would both go entirely mad without the other."

Rey blushed and hid her face in Solo's shoulder. "I do hope it hasn't put a wrench in any travelling plans—"

"Nonsense," said Lady Solo. "I took the liberty of purchasing another first-class ticket aboard the _Adriatic_ a month ago, so you are all accounted for, my dear; and think nothing of it."

"Good God, Mama," said Ben, scarlet to the ears, "do you ever _not_ think of everything?"

"Of course not," said Lady Solo, sweeping about, "for if I did not, all the world might fall to wreck and ruin. Now, they have laid the table for three, and dinner will be served in ten minutes: that leaves enough time for you both to go and wash up, and for heaven's sake, Ben, _shave_."

* * *

Rey was put up in the third-best bedroom, directly across from Lord Solo's rooms and down the hall from Lady Solo. Her room did not look out on the street, but was very fine anyway, and she had been lent a fresh nightgown, with promises of a fine trousseau to be acquired before the voyage. Her things had already been collected from St. Agnes', and they were in the process of being laundered thoroughly.

The prospect of the voyage terrified her. To be back on the ocean after so long: to leave behind all she knew all over again? Of course, she thought as she sat on the dressing-stool and brushed her hair out, of course, any woman accepting a marriage proposal might as well say the same things, for what marriage _didn't_ require some sort of change, or sacrifice? She had made the papers for her dancing, she knew, and yet the slight pain in her ankles and knees in the mornings told her that she was beginning to pass the apex of her prime. _You knew this was coming anyway_ , she chided herself in the mirror, _and you can still teach_.

It would make a fascinatingly romantic story in the papers, of course: star ballet dancer run off to wed a Duke's heir in England. She would be popular wherever she went on account of it, so she would not have to work at making a name for herself. The possibilities seemed dizzyingly endless. And she would be a _Duchess_ one day—a Duchess! It seemed too good to be real, or true at all, and she found herself seized with a sudden fear that it was not real at all—that Lady Solo or Lord Solo would come in and tell her it was a great joke.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door very quietly opening. Rey turned on her stool quickly, and was startled to see Lord Solo creeping in, shutting the door behind him and holding a finger to his lips. He had washed up and shaved and had a valet trim his hair, and he was in a dressing-gown. "Sorry to frighten you," he said, coming up slowly to her table and sitting on an armchair about five feet away. Both his hands were clasped tightly together in his lap, as if he was afraid to move them. "I wanted to make sure you were here, and it wasn't a dream."

She smiled. "I was just thinking to myself how I expected someone to come and tell me that none of it was real at all and that I must go back to St. Agnes' at once."

"If anyone says such a thing, I'll beat them to a pulp," said Solo. "How do you like the room?"

"It's lovely," Rey told him, and let a teasing lilt into her voice a little. "Should you be here? After all, we are engaged, and it might not be proper. What _will_ the staff think?"

"Damn the staff," said Solo, and gave her his boyish, wide grin. "My mother's asleep, and she sleeps through damn near everything."

"I don't suppose—" Rey shut her mouth with a snap, blushing furiously: she shouldn't even think of such a thing, let alone suggest the idea. Why, she was in a nightgown, for heaven's sake, and he was in his dressing-robe, and they might be engaged properly now, but _still_ —

"You don't suppose what?" asked Solo.

"I…nothing," said Rey, confounded at her own impertinence. "I only…well, you did once say _damn propriety_ quite a lot, and here you are in my bedroom."

Solo tilted his head slightly to one side, as if he was trying to discern her mood. "Ah," he said. "Can it be that the lady wishes to—"

"You know very _well_ what I wish to do!" gasped Rey in consternation. She whirled about and resumed brushing her hair, trying not to look at him in the mirror. Her fingers parted the locks into sections, and she quickly braided it all down her back, tying it off.

"Hmm," said Solo, and got up, approaching her cautiously, as if she was a horse that might start. "Do I indeed? I confess I am not a mind-reader or a fortune-teller. You might have to tell me."

Rey pressed her legs together under her nightgown, which suddenly seemed at once very thin and not thin enough at all. "I wish," she said, "to—to go to bed with you." She shut her mouth with a snap, flushing again: oh, how _forward_ it was to say a thing like that!

"Oh, is that all?" asked Lord Solo carelessly, "why, you should have said so—" and before she could make an indignant demand on what he meant, he was picking her up off the stool as if she weighed nothing, and carrying her to the turned-down bed, depositing her there, and having cast off his dressing-gown, climbed in on the other side in nothing but his drawers.

"I—" Flummoxed, Rey turned her head, and he smiled.

"Why, you said you wanted to go to bed with me. So here we are, in bed. Good night, Miss Nowak." Solo leaned over and turned the lamp down low, the room in a dim golden glow, then turned over, his broad back to her. Rey's mouth fell open in outraged embarrassment: why, that had not been what she meant at all, and he knew it, the villain!

She waited in mortified silence for a bit, waiting for her heart to stop pounding. No, she must reach out and make the first move: for both times before he had come to her—now she must come to him. Quietly, Rey turned on her right side toward him and gnawed on her bottom lip before reaching out with her left hand, hesitating just before she touched his bare, smooth back. _Don't be a goose_ , she thought to herself, _you've had the man twice and now you're afraid to touch him!_ Her fingertips touched his skin, and she pulled back, half-afraid, but he made no movement. Carefully, she pressed forward again, this time her whole hand palm-flat on his back, and gently stroked down his flank, toward his waist. His skin was smooth and very warm, sprinkled with beauty-marks.

Inspiration suddenly struck her. She took her hand away, sat up, then quickly and quietly pulled her nightgown off over her head, leaving her entirely nude in the bed. Lying back down as silently as she could, she inched closer to Solo, and pressed the length of her bare body along his back: hip to hip, chest to back.

"Miss Nowak," said Solo in a very rough voice.

"Yes," said Rey, almost shivering.

"You seem to have misplaced your nightgown." He sounded rather strained, as if he was holding on to his sanity by a thread.

"Oh, have I? How silly and thoughtless of me." Feeling rather emboldened by his reaction, she pressed her mouth to his back, and snaked one arm about his waist. "You shall have to help me find it."

"Mm. Where did you last see it?"

"Well, I am sure I was wearing it when I got into bed. You ought to turn round: I'm sure it's on this side."

He paused, then rolled over in a heave of bedclothes and solid flesh, and she was face-to-face with him. Both his eyes, dark in the dim light, swept across her bare skin like embers. "I see," he said.

"It might," said Rey, screwing up her courage, "be between my legs. Would you care to have a look?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he said hoarsely, and sat up, yanking his drawers off and flinging them aside without taking his eyes off her. "Yes. You had better open them up and let me see."

Obediently, she spread her legs, and he pressed his hand up the length of her right leg, all the way up to the apex of her thigh, across the soft thatch of hair, and down the other thigh. His hand was trembling a very little bit. "Nothing there," he said. "Shall I look elsewhere?"

"Yes," Rey managed, very hot in the face, "you had better roll me over to make sure I am not laying on it."

He turned her over with strong, gentle hands and let his fingers drift up her backside, squeezing and lifting and touching. "Nothing there either," he said somewhat hoarsely, one blunt finger tracing down between her thighs and brushing just around the dampness there. "Hmm. This looks promising."

"I don't think you'll find the nightgown in _there,_ " said Rey, fighting a giggle.

"Oh, I had nearly forgot about the nightgown," he said, very low and soft next to her ear. "Of course, if you want me to look elsewhere—" and his hand began to move away.

"No," gasped Rey, her hands tightening in the sheets, "no, don't go looking anywhere else: stay right there."

"Like so," he said, and pushed his finger in gently, up to the knuckle. "Yes?"

She felt herself flutter around him: it was not enough, her body cried out for—"More," she begged, and shut her mouth tight. Wives didn't _beg_ in bed, for heaven's sake—this wasn't proper at all, she was _engaged_ , it was not—

His finger slipped in fully, and she gave a very small gasp. She had forgotten how large his hands were. "More?" he echoed. "Will that do?"

No, it would not do at all, but her voice had escaped her for the moment. Rey bucked her hips up and back, driving his finger deeper. "Please," she panted.

Solo moved forward and pressed himself along her bare back, his skin like fire against hers. She could feel the length of him laying firm and hot on the back of her thigh. "Please _what_ , my dear Miss Nowak? You must learn to tell me exactly what you want, in plain language: this will avert any crises of misunderstanding such as we have found ourselves—" he bucked a little, unable to help himself—" _mired_ in over the past months—" his mouth found her neck, and he swept aside her thick braid to kiss it—"and so make our marriage more tolerable to both parties."

"Tolerable," echoed Rey incredulously, trying very hard not to tremble as his mouth swept down her back and traced the lines of her waist. " _Tolerable_ —" His finger crooked wickedly within her, and she jerked, her thighs pressed tight together.

"Say it," he whispered, sounding as if he was just as desperate as she. "Go on. Say it."

"I w-want—" Rey shut her eyes, unable to bear it. "I want your—your—" She could not think of a proper word at all; every term that sped through her mind was either too crude or too childish or too clinical. In a flash she settled on the crude— "your _cock_ , in me, please, _please_ , Ben, don't make me ask again—"

Ben rolled her over in a flash and pulled her close, lining himself up and pressing in slowly, and thank God, thank _God_ , it slaked the awful thirst for a brief moment. "Christ," he said roughly, clinging to her. "Christ, you're _hot_ , and close, and w-wet—"

Rey reached up for him and held his face in her hands, all shame gone. "Ben," she said softly, and traced down the scar on his cheek with her thumb. "My Ben."

He shut his eyes tight and rolled his hips, a moan escaping his mouth. "My little Rey," he said, his hands twined in her hair. Tears gathered in his dark lashes. "I'll give you everything you want. Anything. Anything in the world—as long as you let me come to your bed—at _least_ twice a month—as long as we live—"

"You can come—every night—if you like," gasped Rey, holding on for dear life as the bed began to thump and creak with every movement. "Oh—oh— _Ben_ —"

After that, it was all a confusion of soft cries and desperate, animal passions; clinging and kissing and biting, until both had found their release and come down softly, and lay together, limbs entwined, sweating in the great bed as they came back to their senses.

Solo raised his head from where it was nestled on Rey's breast. "I'm glad you said yes," he told her drowsily.

"Mmm," said Rey, half-asleep. "You had better get back to your room. It won't do for the maids to find you in here in the morning."

He groaned deeply and pretended to make a great fuss out of having to get up, and she snickered and cocooned herself in the bedclothes as he put his dressing-gown back on. "I shall see you in the morning, sweetheart," he said quietly, and kissed her mouth before turning and leaving the room.

Miss Nowak lay in bed, half-dozing, until she fell into a beautiful dream she could not remember in the morning at all, but woke with a sense of utter peace as she had not felt in years.

All was well, and the day—indeed, her future—was full of promise.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we come to our conclusion, Dear Readers.

EPILOGUE

The great, stately old English house stands overlooking green lawns and orchards, pasture and woods and fields: white stone walls and a great portico, four stories high. There are horses in the stables, sheep and cows in the pastures, red deer in the woods, and men who work the fields: the estate is large and prosperous as it has not been for years.

In the house lives the Duke of Skywalker, Lord John Benjamin Solo; his wife, the Duchess of Skywalker, Lady Rachel Maria Solo; the Duke's mother, the Dowager Duchess, Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo; and of course the children—always the children, underfoot or outside, playing at being knights and ladies and battling fairies and wizards in the garden. One might, on a sunny day, find the Duchess outside, with her skirts tucked up, running about the orchards with them and laughing in delight.

There is the oldest boy, John James, who they call Jamie: a cheerful child of seven, just breeched, with his father's ears and his mother's light brown eyes and hair—the first girl, five years old, Elizabeth Lelia (but her grandmother calls her Little Leia), a black-haired, brown-eyed girl with a delicate little face who loves dancing most of all: the third son, Benjamin, three; as serious as his father and a perfect likeness of his mother—and of course the baby, Marie, who is only one and has not quite gotten a temperament yet, but is a sweet little creature all the same and burbles to herself in delight when she is in her pram, or being held, or watching her mother teach her sister how to dance _le ballet_.

Yes, _le ballet;_ the Duchess has a small, private school for dancing that she teaches from the music room in Skywalker House every summer, and little girls (and some boys) come from the other great estates close by, or the villages, for the Duchess is insistent that every child who shows propensity for the art be taught regardless of class—she is very modern-minded, and an excellent teacher. She writes often to a good friend of hers, Mrs. Ilsa Larsen, a farmer's wife in America, who has visited ten times since Jamie was born, and who the children all call Aunt Ilsa: when she is there, she and the Duchess go arm-in-arm all about the countryside and host afternoon teas for the society ladies nearby, or for the veterans of the Great War or the Red Cross.

For yes, war came to England, or if it did not really come to England, England went to the war; and although it has been past for over a year, England has lost her young men and her old men, and the wound is deeply felt by all. The Duke was exempt from the conscription until the last years of the War, and even then the Crown would have overlooked a married, titled man with two small children, but he felt it his duty to serve. So he had bought his commission, put on his uniform, kissed the Duchess good-bye, and spent seven months in the sucking mud and the trenches and the gas and the wire before being shot through his right shoulder and sent back home to the green fields and the fine stone house, just in time for the birth of little Benjamin, and with only a scar to show for his service to his country.

The war's ghost lay on the estate even after the Duke had returned, for a good part of their young men were lost, lying forever under a far-away sky, and the year it all ended they laid a wreath at the village churchyard together, in memory. They will, perhaps, continue to do it in perpetuity, or as long as the memory lies on England's mind. The Duke has his incongruities, and insisted on personally providing for the widows and fatherless children in the village—and the house, also, has its incongruities, perhaps a reflection of its master. Sometimes the Duchess wears a great pair of ruby drop-earrings, set in diamonds, to dinner, and the Dowager Duchess sees them and smiles  at her, and the Duchess smiles back, almost as if it is a great jest shared between them, but should you have the temerity to ask, they will not let you in on the secret at all; and upon the mantel-piece of the Duchess' rooms, there is a worn, leather-bound folio, shut and bound tightly, and lovingly dusted every morning by the Duchess herself, as if it is a very precious thing of value.

The Duke can be found playing with his children in the garden when he is not hard at work: he is a brilliant inventor and engineer whose most recent accomplishment included patenting and building a new water-wheel and stone for the village mill that put out flour at a massive increase, which boosted the profits to the estate by twenty per cent. He is a man prone to occasional swings of mood and temper, with an ugly scar down the right side of his face, but it gives him no trouble. His children like to touch it reverently with their chubby little hands and tell each other in the nursery, _Papa was a pirate long ago,_ or, _Papa was in a sword-battle with a wizard,_ or, _Papa got it in the war_. For what is _war_ to children but a fight in the garden with sticks, or a volley of mud thrown over a hedge?

The Duke and Duchess have not told their children of the sinking of the _Titanic_. It is something to be held until they are old enough to understand the dreadful occasion that wrought so much destruction and loss and grief, and they want to ensure their children understand it and the fact that beauty can be found in the greatest of tragedy—for without the great ship, they would have never found each other.

Tragedy itself—the sinking, and the War—has touched them all, of course, and the shadow of it lies on all three of them, which they do their best to hide from the children: the Dowager Duchess often gets out of bed at a quarter to midnight and spends the night sleepless in the library; the Duchess wakes sometimes in the night crying out _Mrs. Hansen_ , or _Mr. Mackenzie_ ; the Duke cannot abide cold water, and sometimes leaves his wife's bed to wander the halls in the dead of night. One day this too, shall pass, but some wounds can only be mended by time alone.

So until then, the Duchess goes to the nursery every evening at half-past seven, benevolently banishing the maids and the nurses. She gathers her children close about her, and reads them fairy-stories out of a book: the Firebird, and Diamonds and Toads, and Aschenputtel, and the Goose-girl, and Snow-white and Rose-red, and the Beauty and the Beast; all stories of how good and beauty always prosper, and wickedness is defeated, and how love above all else holds power over enchantment. The Duke sometimes comes up quiet as a mouse, and listens at the door, peeping through the crack and watching his wife read to their children, and he smiles for the plain and simple joy that his life has brought him—and if ever there was a happier family in all the world, you would be hard-pressed to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have come to our conclusion! NOTES:
> 
> -Marie is named after Rey's maman. I never found the time to name her in the narrative, but there it is.  
> -Full confession: my incredibly dumb ass worked on this for months with Titanic Tunnel Vision and I realized about three weeks ago that I forgot World War One happened, like, right after the Titanic sank, and the thing that reminded me about it was Downton Abbey, of all things. Enormous shout out to eclecticmuses for not even going here but proofreading this new version and making sure it ran smoothly.   
> -"Aschenputtel" is the original German title of Cinderella, because of course I had to.
> 
> And that's all I can think of! My twitter is @urulokid, feel free to screech at me all you like, etc. Thank you so much for all your lovely comments, kudos, and bookmarks: I wholly do not deserve such fine readers with such excellent taste.


End file.
